


Life Hereafter

by as_with_a_sunbeam



Category: 19th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: 1804, 1833 - Freeform, Alexander Hamilton Lives, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, to
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2020-05-13 03:46:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 33,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19243186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/as_with_a_sunbeam/pseuds/as_with_a_sunbeam
Summary: “A Miracle,” the top headline of the New York Evening Post proclaimed in large, bold font. Below the glowing prose sending boundless thanks to the French army surgeons and merciful God for having preserved America’s most treasured ornament, Eliza Hamilton noted another headline in smaller text: “Vice President Burr Flees Southward Ahead of Possible Indictment.”__Alexander Hamilton barely survives the duel with Vice President Aaron Burr. History will never be the same.





	1. Eliza, July 1804

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: some hinted suicidal ideation and descriptions of injuries

**July 1804**

“A Miracle,” the top headline of the New York Evening Post proclaimed in large, bold font. Eliza bent to collect the stack of newspapers piled in front of the door, scanning quickly over the article in the dim afternoon light. Below the glowing prose sending boundless thanks to the French army surgeons and merciful God for having preserved America’s most treasured ornament, she noted another headline in smaller text: “Vice President Burr Flees Southward Ahead of Possible Indictment.” She fought a wave of blind rage at the sight of the name as she crumpled the stack under her armpit and pushed open the front door of the townhouse.

A rumble of thunder echoed somewhere in the distance.

“Steady,” David Hosack cautioned from the back of the wagon. He awkwardly maneuvered himself down backwards onto the cobblestone street and motioned for the others to follow. “Slow and steady, men. We’ll beat the storm yet.”

One of William Bayard’s servants jumped out of the wagon beside Hosack and reached back to lift the wooden handles of a stretcher. A low groan of pain issued out as the stretcher slid off the solid foundation. Eliza watched as Hosack tenderly adjusted the blanket over her husband, leaning forward to inspect something on his middle, before gesturing towards the house. Alexander clutched at the side of the stretcher so tightly his knuckles were white, his jaw bunched and locked to hold back a scream.

They were moving him too soon, Eliza thought, pressing herself against the door to keep it open wide as possible. A fever flush still colored his gaunt, sunken cheeks. They could only pray the stitches holding his abdominal cavity closed held fast through all the jostling.

She knew the Bayards hospitality had begun wearing thin after the long two weeks of constant bustle and activity, with doctors, well-wishers, and reporters knocking at all hours, but that alone would never have been enough to convince her to undertake the risky move. No, it had been Alexander who had prevailed upon her in the end. Of course it had. She’d never been good at resisting him in the best of circumstances.

“Where am I?” he’d mutter, head rolling restlessly on his pillows. Too feverish to retain her explanations and assurances, he would plead with her, over and over, “I don’t want to be here. I want to go home.”

She simply couldn’t bear to refuse him anymore.

Alexander whimpered as the two servants navigated the front steps, not quite able to keep the stretcher level. “Please,” Alexander said, breathless. His voice was barely audible, strangled with pain.

“Easy,” Hosack said.

Her hand grazed over Alexander’s as the stretcher passed through the door. He didn’t relax at all. His expression remained twisted with indescribable agony.

“Just through here,” Eliza said, gesturing down the hall towards the parlor.

She’d already ordered the furniture moved and their bed from upstairs brought down. Seeing the difficulty with managing even the front stoop, she was relieved she’d planned ahead. He never would have made it upstairs. The first few droplets of rain began to ping on the rail as Eliza pushed the front door closed.

“If you could bring some water and towels, Mrs. Hamilton, that would be a help,” Hosack requested, a consoling hand brushing her arm.

“Of course.”

She slapped the crumpled stack of newspapers down onto the front hall table before hurrying downstairs to collect the needed supplies. The headline occurred to her again as she reached into the cabinet for a water basin. A miracle, they had called it.  

“The ball must have pieced the liver,” she recalled Hosack explaining to the French surgeons who had arrived just hours after her on that terrible day. “He has no sensation below the waist. With no exit wound, and the sharp pains in his back, I fear the bullet has embedded itself into the spine.”

 “I’m well aware this is a mortal wound, gentlemen,” Alexander had said calmly, so infuriatingly brave in the face of his certain death.

“ _Non_ ,” said one of the French doctors. “I do not believe this is so. If you will consent to surgery, General Hamilton, we may yet save your life.”

Shock had registered on his face. His eyes had met hers, confused and questioning. Should I, he seemed to ask her.

“Yes,” she’d said without a moment’s hesitation or thought of the consequences, beyond a frantic, aching need to keep him alive. She would do the same again today, even knowing the cost: the blood, the screams, the abject misery.

Fighting away the memories, she poured water into the basin, collected some spare towels, and began to climb the stairs. The hiss of the rain was audible as she passed through the foyer, even over another rumble of thunder, louder and closer now. She paused briefly at the window, watching the magnificent fury of the sudden summer storm.

“No. No. Please.”

She turned at the sound of her husband’s moans.

Alexander screamed.

“Mrs. Hamilton!” Hosack called over the cry of raw, desperate pain.

She flew down the hall, water sloshing all over the floor in her haste. In the parlor, she found Hosack attempting to pin down her husband. Alexander’s head rolled on the pillows, out of his mind with the pain. The scream had transformed into a series of low, agonized moans that were no less heartbreaking to hear.

She shoved the towels and the now nearly empty basin onto the table. “What’s wrong? What should I do?”

“Come hold him. He needs to be still while I clean out the incision and touch up the stitches.”

Coming to Alexander’s side, she glanced down at his bandages, stained with pink and red, unwound and pushed aside. The long, jagged surgical incision, which ran the length of his belly, was swollen, red, and bubbling faintly from the alcohol Hosack had just poured over it. She returned her gaze to Alexander’s face and placed her hands over his shoulders.

“I’m here. You’re all right.” Her voice was faint, her assurances woefully inadequate in the face of his anguish.

Tears were streaming down into his hairline as he swallowed convulsively. His eyes were clenched shut against the pain. “Please. It hurts. Make it stop. Please.”

“Almost done,” she promised, though she had no idea if it were true. Turning to Hosack, she asked, “Can’t you give him something?”

“I’ve given him as much laudanum as I dare, and I’ve numbed the site best I can. Hold him still. I’ll be quick as possible.”

Alexander screamed again as Hosack poured more alcohol. His upper torso thrashed in a futile attempt to curl up against the pain. Eliza pressed her weight down on his shoulders to try to keep him still.

A whimper of her own fell past her lips.

**

Eliza sat curled up in an armchair beside the bed, clad in her nightgown with a blanket tucked over her lap, a crumpled letter resting atop it. The storm still raged at the windows, the house otherwise quiet with the children staying at Angelica’s until Alexander was settled. Candlelight glittered on the medical instruments and vials decorating every available surface. Her head rested against the back cushion as she studied the uneven rise and fall of Alexander’s chest.

“You were wrong,” she whispered.

She’d found the letter sitting on his desk in his office when she’d gone up to change that night, her name prominent on the front of the envelope. Her goodbye. Her life without him yawned before her with sudden clarity, so real she almost believed it were true. Only the sight of his struggling breath when she’d raced back downstairs had alleviated the flood of panic that had consumed her upon finding the note.    

The desperate message, the fear underpinning it, had brought the sting of tears to her eyes. These were the words he intended to leave her, the words meant to be her explanation, her consolation, after his untimely death.  And they were so, so wrong.

The sound of her voice seemed to rouse him. His eyelids fluttered lightly, then slowly blinked open. He gazed up at the ceiling for a long moment before turning his head towards her. She forced an approximation of a smile, willing away the urge to shake him.

“Hi, honey.”

He blinked at her.

She slid from the chair to sit on the bed, her hand reaching out to touch his forehead. His skin felt slightly cooler to the touch. She raked her hand back through his hair affectionately. “You’re a little cooler. I think your fever’s coming down. How do you feel?”

“Mm. I….” His voice faded out, rough and hoarse from his earlier screams, but he seemed to be struggling towards coherence, fighting off the fog of drugs and fever for the first time since his nightmarish surgery.

“Do you want some water?”

He nodded slightly.

She poured some into a cup and carefully held it to his chapped lips. After two small sips, he turned away. She placed the cup back on the table and wiped the dribble from the corner of his mouth. “Better?”

“A little.”

“Do you want to try some soup?”

Revulsion passed over his features. “No.”

“I know the laudanum upsets your stomach, sweetheart, but you have to eat. What about just some broth? That shouldn’t make you sick, and at least you’ll have a little nourishment.”

“I can’t.”

She sighed, brushing her knuckles over his hollow cheek. He’d hardly eaten in the past weeks; he’d let her ply him with a few mouthfuls of soup a few times, but couldn’t seem to stomach anything more substantial. He seemed to be wasting away in front of her.

“We’ll try later,” she decided. A compromise.

He jerked his chin a little.

This was the longest, most coherent exchange they’d had. He was blinking heavily, clearly drowsy, but he was still awake and seemed able to talk. Her mind spun with all she needed to tell him. She reached for his hand, seizing the opportunity.  

“I got your letter.” Confusion wrinkled his brow. “The one you left on your desk.”

“Oh.”

“You wrote that I would rather you die innocent than live guilty.” A justification for himself that he’d imputed to her, she’d understood. “That’s not true. I want you live. Always. No matter what. I need you to live.”

He stared at her for a moment, considering the words.  

“I used to think that about Pip,” he said. A rough cough forced its way out of him, his lungs aggravated by the attempted speech. His whole body tensed with pain, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes again.

Her hand glided over his chest in an attempt to soothe him as she hushed him. “I know, sweetheart. I wish that, too.” Her throat felt thick around the words.

“No. I don’t, now.” He took a shallow, uneven breath. “I thank God for his mercy in taking our boy quickly. I wouldn’t wish this fate on a dog.”

She sat back, stunned.

His eyes seemed to be pleading with her. “I’m in so much pain, Betsey. So much pain. I don’t know how much longer I can bear it.”

“It will get better,” she promised.

He closed his eyes, overcome with another wave.

His request at the Bayard’s came back to her suddenly with new, dreadful meaning. “I don’t want to be here,” he’d kept telling her, over and over. She stared at him, wondering for what exactly he’d been pleading—if that had really been a request to go back to their townhouse at all.

 “You’ll get better,” she insisted more urgently. “You will. I promise. Just stay with me. Please. Just stay. I can’t lose you. I can’t.”

She was crying, now, curling towards him, her forehead pressing against his. The stress, the sleeplessness, the fear all overwhelmed her. Grief for a life not yet lost came out in uncontrollable sobs. 

“Shh,” he said. His arm moved weakly on the mattress, raising just enough to brush his fingers over her cheek. “I’m sorry. I’m here. I’m still here.”

She clutched her hand around his and squeezed tight.

“ _The will of a merciful God must be good_ ,”* he’d written to her in his goodbye letter. Was this good? Merciful? A miracle, as the papers proclaimed?

What was God doing?

What sort of miracle was this?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Alexander Hamilton to Elizabeth Hamilton, July 10, 1804
> 
> And my next big project begins! I promise it won't stay this dark! My plan is to follow Hamilton's recovery in the early parts, then branch out into some larger historical events: Aaron Burr's treason trial, the embargo acts, the War of 1812, etc. (Nothing too ambitious, right?) I'll try to keep it as historically accurate as possible, though some things will obviously change, given Hamilton's participation. Jefferson, Madison, and Burr will be making appearances, as will the Hamilton kids, of course. (I'm actually considering doing some chapters from the kids povs, as well as Eliza and Alexander's.)


	2. Hamilton, September 1804

**September 1804**

The parlor door eased open, then tapped closed again. Footsteps padded across the carpet towards the back of the room. Hamilton remained still in his bed, his eyes closed, uninterested in his visitor. The heavy curtains over the windows swished open suddenly, their metal rings skittering against the curtain rod, and bright daylight pressed against his eyelids.

“Close them,” he said roughly, shifting his head fractionally towards his intruder.

“Sorry.” The curtains closed again. “Do you have a headache, honey?”

“Eliza?” He squinted in the dim light, and could just make out his wife’s figure coming around the bed.

“When’s the last time you turned?” She began easing pillows gently beneath his back without waiting for his answer. He gritted his teeth against the spasms shooting up his spine from the movement. Slowly, with the support of four pillows, he found himself lying on his side.

She crawled over the bed when she’d finished, and laid down before him, her nose almost touching his. She smelled of fresh cut grass, of flowers and sunshine, so very alive. Smiling slightly, she said, “Hi.”

“Hi.” He placed his hand on her waist, the cotton of her dress soft and warm under his fingers. “You came back.”

Hurt flickered over her features. “Of course I came back.”

He hadn’t meant to sound so surprised; he knew her too well to truly suspect she’d abandon him. And he knew she’d felt guilty for taking time to go out to the Grange with the little ones, no matter how he’d tried to ease her conscience. He didn’t know how to tell her without hurting her that the clinical, detached hands of a stranger were often so much more bearable than her familiar, tender touch.

The more he’d come back to himself, the more humiliated he’d been by her care. For weeks, she’d dutifully fed him, checked him for bedsores, cleaned his soiled sheets, and washed him with damp rags. Whenever she’d noticed him withdrawing, she’d insisted, “I’ve seen you poorly a thousand times before. This isn’t any different.”

But it was different, he wanted to respond. So very different.  

He tried to smile. “How was the Grange?”

“The gardens are still blooming,” she said, voice lilting upwards in enticement. “You could come see them. We could pack the wagon with lots of pillows to keep you comfortable, and I’ll hold your hand the whole way. Some fresh air would do you good.”

He shook his head.

“The children miss you.”

“I miss them.” He did, terribly, but he couldn’t bear for them to see him like this, a pale shadow of himself. “But I can’t.”

She sighed, detecting the note of finality in his answer. Adjusting her head on the pillow beside him, she reached out, her fingers carding through his sheared-short hair. “This is new.”

Hosack had agreed to cut his hair for him while she’d been away. He hated how tangled, sweaty, and unkempt it had become. It’s not the shortest he’s ever worn it—he’d shaved his head entirely once when he was twenty to combat the lice plaguing his whole unit—but it’s the shortest Eliza has ever seen it.

“Seemed easier,” he said. “What do you think?”

“I like it. Very handsome,” she said, her fingers exploring the back of his head to take in the feel of the short strands.

The admiring look in her eyes made him want to roll over, kiss her, make love to her, sweet and slow. A wave of grief rushed over him at the impossibility of something that had once been so natural. He closed his eyes again.

“How are you feeling?”

He fought not to scoff at the question. His lower body lacked all sensation. The parts of his torso he could still feel felt wrong, his organs all rearranged, the indelible fingerprint of the doctors’ work inside him. His back was in a state of almost constant spasm, his muscles confused as they tried to latch on to his shattered spine. The fever had dropped below boiling some weeks ago, but persisted in an intermittent fashion, leaving him itchy, exhausted, and foul tempered. He now had all his mental faculties to experience the pain to its full intensity, just as Hosack was recommending he start easing up on the constant doses of laudanum.

“My ribs are healed,” he reported, his only good news. “You can hug me now, if you’re careful.”

Her arms immediately wound around his upper torso, squeezing him against her for a long moment. She made a contented sound in the back of her throat. “I missed this.”

“Mm,” he hummed in agreement, hugging her in return.

When she eased back, she gave him a scrutinizing look. “You’re so thin. Do you have any appetite yet?”

“No.”

“Do you not feel well?”

“No,” he said again, clinging on to the ambiguity of the double negative. He doesn’t feel nauseated, exactly, not like before. Nothing seemed to agree with him, though, and less he ate, the less he was forced to make use of the strip of cloth everyone around him was too polite to call a diaper. He greedily guarded these last scraps of his dignity.

Her nose bumped his as she leaned in to press a kiss to his lips. “Will you try to eat something? For me, please? I’ll get you anything you want. Ice cream?”

He smiled. “Maybe some soup.”

“And bread?” she pressed.

“And bread,” he agreed.

She laid there for a silent moment, her beautiful dark eyes studying his face, then she cupped his jaw gently. “Can I tell you something?”

“Anything.”

“I wanted to go the Grange. Not just for the children. For me.” Her words carry the air of a confession. “It hurts me to watch you hurting like this, knowing there’s nothing I can do to make you better. I feel so useless.”

He hugged her close again. “You do make it better. You make it bearable.”

In the dark, stale air of the parlor, a prisoner in his own body, he sometimes almost believed he was in hell. The laudanum bottle by his bedside, just within reach, had been a source of sore temptation during her two week absence: a few mouthfuls too many might bring sweet release from the torment his life had become. Only thoughts of how devastated and guilt-ridden Eliza would be kept him fighting, her constant pleas for him to stay ringing in his ears. He couldn’t bear to leave her, however much he might think it best for her to leave him.

She gave a hitching breath against him. “I’m sorry I left.”

“I understand,” he assured her, kissing her temple. “I don’t blame you for needing a break.  I feel like such a burden. We’ve gone from husband and wife to invalid and nursemaid.”

“That’s not true,” she said, pushing at his shoulder so she could look at him. “You’re still my husband.”

He grunted, skeptical.

“Alexander.” Her tone went sharp. “You’re my husband. The love of my life. We vowed to love each other through sickness and health, through good times and trying times. It is my privilege to take care of you.” 

“If you say so.”

“I do.” She kissed him again, more firmly. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

She nodded, as though something had been decided. “I’ll go get you that soup.”

When she returned, she helped turn him onto his back and propped him up into a mostly seated position, the soup bowl balanced on a tray laid over his lap. He managed half the bowl and a full dinner roll before he had to stop, his stomach rebelling at the sudden influx of food. She replaced the tray with a basin and rubbed his back.

“Deep breaths,” she encouraged. “Try to keep it down.”

He managed to hold on to the food, the queasiness tamping down to a heavy feeling in his gut, but the hunched position he’d assumed while battling the intense nausea sent his back into painful spasms. Tears gathered in his eyes as his muscles clenched and seized, unrelenting. A moan fell past his lips.

“What do you need?” she asked. “What can I do?”

“Down,” he gasped, hands clutched into fists around the sheet beneath him.

She pulled the pillows out from behind him quickly, lowering him down flat onto the mattress. “Do you want more laudanum?”

“Yes.” It did little to help the spasms, but sometimes it made him sleep through the worst of the pain. The bitter taste of the drops filled his mouth a second later, and he swallowed gratefully. He could feel her fingers brushing over his hair.

He slept.

**

The curtains swished open again, pulling him out of his light doze. He blinked in the brilliant afternoon light, and winced at the flood of noise from outside as the window slid open. A cacophony of smells rushed in with the warm breeze. He brought a hand to his temple, shielding his eyes. “Ow. My head.”

“Doctor Hosack says the headache is from too much laudanum and not enough food,” Eliza said, voice cool. The good doctor must have lectured her about his supposed overuse of the pain medication while he’d been asleep.

“Whatever the reason, it still hurts.”

“I’ll close the window again in a little while.” She stooped down and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “But you need some light and some fresh air. It’s like a tomb in here.”

That had been the idea.

“You have a visitor,” she added.

“I don’t want to see anyone.”

“It’s only Mr. Troup.”

He stared up at her, unmoved.

“Want me to prop you up?”

“I don’t want to see him.”

“Here,” she said, lifting him gently to ease some pillows behind his back. “That’s better.”

“Eliza,” he insisted.

She ignored him. Crossing the room, she opened the door and waved Troup inside. “He’s ready for you.” Hamilton gave her a hard look, but she only smiled at him in response.

“Thank you, Mrs. H,” Troup said as he limped past her, the tap of his cane muffled on the carpet.

“I’ll leave you gentlemen to your conversation,” she said, tapping the door closed behind her.

Troup settled his bulk into the chair next to the bed where Eliza had held vigil in the early days of his injury. The lingering annoyance from his wishes being ignored faded at the sight of his old college roommate. Deep down, he knew it wasn’t really Eliza or Troup who had annoyed him in the first place, only the pain and the intermittent fever making him testy.

“You look better than the last time I saw you,” Hamilton said.

Indeed, he’d visited Troup the day before his interview with Burr, and at the time had fretted that his old friend wasn’t long for this world. He’d been suffering with dropsy, his face, hands, and feet all noticeably swollen, and he’d been fighting a deep, wheezy cough. Though Troup still looked a bit puffy, and his breath was a little heavy, he was far better than he’d been.

“I wish I could say the same.” Troup leaned forward in the chair as he took in Hamilton’s appearance. “Good God, Ham, I think you may be skinnier than you were when we first met at King’s.”

“I haven’t had much of an appetite. The pain,” he admitted. “Eliza’s making me eat, though. No worries on that front.”

“Are you in a lot of pain?” Troup asked, eyes softening.

He nodded. “It’s better than it was at first, but….”

Troup reached out and took his hand, squeezing it twice in sympathy. “I like the haircut,” he said, trying for levity.

“Thanks,” Hamilton said, chuckling.

“I’m glad you agreed to see me. No one’s seen hide nor hair of you since you left Bayard’s. We’ve all been worried sick.”

Hamilton only smiled weakly in response. He hadn’t wanted to see anyone outside Eliza, Hosack, and the hired help who’d tended to him when Eliza wasn’t home. An audience of well-wishers would do little to improve his suffering, he’d reasoned.

 “Morris has a present for you, by the way, if you feel up to having him by sometime soon. He had a chair made up for you, from the same people who made his wooden leg. He showed me when I stopped by Morrisania a week ago. You’ll love it. Very sleek and stylish.”

“A chair?”

“A wheelchair,” Troup clarified. “For when you’re feeling stronger, of course.”

He hadn’t actually much considered life outside this room without the use of his legs. Of course a wheelchair would be necessary. He still couldn’t picture himself using one. “That was…very kind of him.”

“Mm. Have you heard who’s in town?” Troup asked, jumping topics easily.

“No.” He hadn’t looked at a newspaper for nearly two months now.

“Our esteemed President.” Troup grinned.

“Jefferson? In New York? Why?”

“Well, he hasn’t exactly taken me into his confidence, but word is he’s here to see you.”

“Me?” His head reeled. Outside the misery of this little room, the world had continued spinning, it seemed. He felt off kilter at being thrust back into it with so little notice. “What does he want with me?”

“Say what you will about Jefferson, but he’s an astute politician, and visiting you is the politically expedient thing to do.”

Hamilton rubbed his fingers over his temple, trying to ease the dull throbbing. “How you do you figure that?”

“The outcome of the duel is his worst nightmare. We have all the benefit of your martyrdom without the detriment of your loss. He’s worried about the elections in November. I think he’s hoping that a visit to you here in New York can undo some of the damage. Stop the bleeding, as it were.”

He really hated Thomas Jefferson. Even the idea of having to deal with politics in his condition exhausted him. “I can’t believe him.”

“I know. And I doubt he’ll stop being a thorn in your side any time soon. Everyone loves you right now. You’ve never been such a threat to him.”

“What, does he think I’m going to challenge him for the presidency from my sickbed?”

“Do you want to? You might win.”

“No.” If he’d ever needed further proof that democratic decision-making was flawed, this was it. “That’s ridiculous. I didn’t have a snowballs chance in hell of being president two months ago. Taking a bullet to the gut hasn’t improved my qualifications for the job in any way. The Presidency isn’t supposed to be a popularity contest.”

“And yet….”

Hamilton growled low in his throat, annoyed again.

“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.” Troup looked more amused than sorry.

He grunted. “I suppose it’s better to be prepared.”

Troup nodded.

"Have you seen Burr?" Hamilton asked. He couldn't say why--base curiosity perhaps. No one had spoken his name since that fateful day, as though he were the boogeyman, like to jump out from the shadows if his name were uttered too many times.

The question seemed to startle Troup. "What?"

"I know you're friends with him. Have you seen him, since...."

"Briefly. He was in a hurry to get away. New York and New Jersey were battling over who had the right to indict him, and for what. New Jersey opted for attempted murder." Troup sounded frustrated by the charge, but then he paused, studying him, wondering if he had said too much.

"The indictments are ludicrous," Hamilton said, trying to ease him. "If they're going to proceed, they may as well indict me too." 

"They're not going to do that. It would be political suicide," Troup said. Clearing his throat, he added, "I hate that he hurt you, Ham. You know that, right?"

"I know. I'm not asking anyone to choose between us."

Troup nodded again, and seemed to consider his next statement carefully. “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

“Greatly,” Hamilton replied, deadpan. “How dare you, my dearest old friend, presume to ask me a personal question.”

Troup laughed, but sobered quickly. “How are you fixed for money?”

Hamilton sighed. “I don’t know. General Schuyler offered to deed over some land to Eliza, I think,” he said. He had only a vague memory of the conversation.

But that wouldn’t do for very long.

He hadn’t actually thought about money much, either, over the past several weeks. He would need to go back to work, sooner rather than later, he realized. At least he could still practice law from a wheelchair. The idea of it still didn’t seem real. Keeping himself isolated from the world had helped hold all these concerns at bay: money, work, politics. One visit had brought them all rushing to the forefront.

“A few of us have been talking. We’re going to take up a collection, just to help you make ends meet, until you’re back on your—” Troup stopped, catching himself at the last minute.

“Feet?” Hamilton supplied.

Troup met his eyes. “Let us do this for you, Ham. You need help, and we’re all happy to give it. I’d hate to see you and Eliza lose the Grange.”

“I’d hate that, too.” He didn’t like the idea of charity, but he wasn’t exactly in a position to refuse. He reached out for Troup’s hand again. “Thank you, Robert.”

“A lot of people love you, Ham. Myself included. Thank the good Lord that you’re still with us. I can’t imagine….” Troup’s throat sounded tight as he trailed off, and his face crumpled.

Hamilton squeezed his hand. “You don’t have to imagine. I’m right here.”

They fell into a companionable silence.

After a few minutes, Eliza poked her head in the door. “Everything going all right in here?”

“We’re fine,” Hamilton said softly.

“I should go,” Troup said. “You need your rest. I’ll come back soon, though?”

Hamilton nodded. “I’d like that.”

Eliza showed Troup out, then came back to the room, tilting her head to the side, the picture of innocence. “Did you have a nice visit?”

“You did that on purpose.”

“Did what?”

“Fresh air, sunshine, a visitor. You’re trying to bring me back to the land of the living.”

She smiled a little. “Is it working?”

“All too well.”

She crossed the room and slid the window shut once again. She left the curtains partly open, though, letting the sunshine continue to brighten the room. “I wanted to remind you that you’re still you in there. You’re not just a burden, or an invalid I’m obligated to look after. It wasn’t too overwhelming, was it?”

“No,” he assured her.

“Good.” She leaned down to adjust his pillows. “Do you want to lie back, or turn over?”

“I’ll stay sitting up for a little while longer,” he decided. The piercing twinge in his back was still there, painful as ever, but it wasn’t yet in an all-out spasm.

“Ready for more food?”

He grumbled lightly. “I already ate.”

“It is customary to eat more than once a day, sweetheart. Especially when you’re skinny as a rake. More soup?”

He considered a moment, then smiled. “How about that ice cream?” He wasn’t sure it would sit with him any better than the soup, but he was willing to try for Eliza. “I could a use treat after the news Troup brought me.”

She looked positively delighted, though she asked, “What news was that?”

“Apparently Mr. Jefferson is intending to pay us a visit.”

Her face fell. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish.”  

She sighed, then shook her head, and smiled again. “Well, I’m not happy with Mr. Jefferson, but I won’t begrudge anything that gives you an appetite. I’ll go get started on your ice cream. Vanilla?”

“Yes, please.”

She kissed him, her lips lingering lovingly against his, before slipping from the room. Alone, he sat propped against the pillows, his hand braced against the tender, aching scar on his abdomen, mind whirling. There was so much to be done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ham's starting out on the road to recovery. I can imagine Eliza really needing time for self-care once he was out of the woods, but feeling horribly guilty about taking it. But it always pays to take the time--once her head was on straight, she could go about fixing his ;) Robert Troup felt like a good first visitor to ease Ham back into reality, as Troup was friends with both Hamilton and Burr, often worried about Hamilton's financial well-being, and was in fact one of the last people Hamilton visited before he died.


	3. Eliza, Septemer 1804

**September 1804**

Eliza wrapped her shawl closer around herself as she stood by the edge of the wagon, supervising two of their servants guiding Alexander’s stretcher out. A crisp breeze had finally blown through, dispelling the muggy, oppressive summer heat. The colors of fall were dotting the trees at the edge of their property, and she could see from where she stood several red, juicy apples dangling from the trees in the orchard, ripe for the picking. 

“Welcome home!” Gouverneur Morris boomed. He stood on the back porch of the Grange and waved at them before coming down the steps, his cane and wooden leg clacking loudly as he hurried towards them.

“Good day, Mr. Morris,” she said. She’d seen his carriage as they’d come around back, so she wasn’t particularly surprised to find him waiting. “What brings you from Morrisania?”

“I heard Ham was making his triumphant return today. He must be on the mend if Hosack consented to let him come this far away from medical intervention. I wanted to offer my hearty congratulations.”

“That’s very kind of you,” she said.

Alexander craned his neck up to see his friend. “I’ll be in a better state to entertain if you don’t mind waiting a few minutes. Did no one let you inside?”

“They did, but I don’t want to intrude. I’ll be off in a minute. I only have some gifts you might find useful now that you’re home and on the mend.” Morris waved a hand towards the servant’s entrance, and one of his servants emerged steering a sleek, enclosed cushioned chair set onto four wheels, two large ones at the sides and two smaller ones beneath the footrest. “I had it made specially. There’s a belt to keep you in place, and all. Should do the trick. What do you think?”

 “It’s…very nice,” Alexander said, though by his tight expression Eliza thought he looked more like a man surveying his jail cell than a gift. “Thank you.”

Morris inclined his head. “There’s a nice bottle of French wine in your kitchen, as well. Thought you’d need that after your meeting with Jefferson.”

Alexander snorted lightly. “Undoubtedly.”

“Well, I’ll leave you to settle in. Mrs. Hamilton.” She nodded her head to him. “Ham. Glad to see you looking so well. You’ll give some thought to that article, will you?”

Alexander’s expression tightened impossibly further. “Yes. Good day, Mr. Morris.”

With a tip of his hat, Morris started to make his way around the house, his servant close on his heels. The chair remained in the middle of the path. Alexander eyed it as the servants began working to slide him free of the wagon again.

“Wait,” he said, holding up a hand. “I want to try the chair.”

“We can try it inside,” she said. “Let’s get you settled.”

“I want to try it now.” He met her eye, obstinate.

Robert and Genti looked to her.

Blowing out a sigh, she agreed, “Fine. Let’s try it now.”

Robert hurried to wheel the chair closer, and Eliza held it steady as he and Genti worked to lift Alexander into the seat. Both men were breathing hard, and Alexander had his eyes closed. Robert fumbled with the buckle for a moment after Alexander had been settled in place, then stood back, nodding. “Looks sturdy, sir.”

“Happy?” Eliza asked.

Alexander tilted his head back to look up at her. The sunshine accented his sickly pallor from too many weeks without seeing daylight. His voice had a slightly breathy quality as he said, “Take me to the gardens.”

“Honey,” she said, half pleading.

“You promised I could see them if I braved the trip, and brave the trip I did. Take me to the gardens,” he insisted.

She had promised him that, when she’d first come back from the two week trip home. The guilt still ate at her for leaving him, but she’d needed so badly to get away. The horror of it all, the very real possibility of losing him, the way he’d become little more than a shell of himself even as he crawled away from the threshold of death, it had all been too much. He wouldn’t read or write, he refused to hear anything from the papers he’d used to consume religiously. Watching him lie there in the dark, day after day, staring listlessly at the wall or the ceiling depending on how she’d positioned him, caused her physical pain. All the while, she’d known her children were suffering without them at Angelica’s house. So she’d escaped to the Grange with the children for two weeks, and pretended her life wasn’t unrecognizably changed.

In the end, it seemed it was for the best.  When she’d returned, feeling slightly more sane, she’d opened windows, called Troup, and forced Alexander out of his numb cocoon of painkillers and darkness. She should be thrilled that he wanted to see the gardens at all.

“You’re not going to have very long to rest before Mr. Jefferson arrives,” she reminded him. That was the real reason for his change of heart about visiting the Grange, she suspected. Jefferson would now need to ride an hour and half outside the city to keep their appointment.

“We have plenty of time,” he said.

She gave in, as she always did, and pressed her weight against the back of the chair. The wheels struggled over the gravel, but eased nicely when she pushed him onto the dirt paths leading down to the orchard. Looking over her shoulder, she said to Robert and Genti, “I’ll call for you when we’re ready to come in.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Robert said.

They turned down one of the twisting pathways through the upper garden, and she asked, “What was Mr. Morris talking about? The article he mentioned?”

Alexander grunted. “He and King have both been on me to write something for the papers.”

“About the election?” she asked.

“In a way. Apparently, my sudden popularity has emboldened the Federalists to put up a real fight against Jefferson. They think if I publish something thanking everyone for the outpour of support and prayers, it will stir even more good will for the party going into the critical period. If Pinckney can sweep everything north of Pennsylvania, he’ll have 92 electors, even if he loses his home state of South Carolina.”

“How many electors does he need to win?”

“89.”

“So he’d win.”

Alexander nodded.

“Is that likely?”

“No.”

She smiled a little. “Are you going to write the article anyway?”

“Probably.”

As they approached the orchard, she heard barking. A second later, William ran into sight, Old Peggy keeping pace with him, a stick held between the dog’s slobbering jaws. When the boy caught sight of them, his eyes widened in shocked delight. “Papa!”

“Gentle, William,” she said firmly before the boy could take a running leap at his father. William skidded to a stop just in front of Alexander, hesitating.

“Come here,” Alexander invited. “I’ve missed you, my little lamb.”

William clambered up into his lap, latching on to him tightly, like he might fade away if not held in place. She understood the inclination; she couldn’t seem to stop touching him either, lately.  Old Peggy stood up on her hind legs, paws scratching at the new wood, and licked Alexander full in the face.

“Down,” Eliza ordered. But as she shooed the dog away, she heard Alexander laughing, for the first time since this whole nightmare had begun.

**

“Sweetheart?”

They’d set Alexander up in one of the back bedrooms on the first floor usually reserved for guests. The bed faced the window, though, with a view down to the gardens, and Doctor Hosack had sent several vases of flowers from his botanical garden to brighten the space even further. Alexander, currently a lump in the bed with the blankets pulled up over his head, didn’t seem to be enjoying the cheery atmosphere.

“Sweetheart? Are you awake?”

He grunted.

She’d known he was going to exhaust himself. After two months of total bedrest, he couldn’t expect to be touring the grounds and reuniting with all his children without it taking a toll. The little ones had been thrilled at his surprise reappearance, though, and she hadn’t the heart to chase them off until Alexander’s eyes had begun to droop.

Going around the bed, she climbed in beside him, pulling the blanket up over her head, as well. He smiled as she adjusted beside him, holding her hand up to create a tent in the blanket. The bright sunlight filtered through the light weave of the quilt, lighting his face. “It’s almost three. You should be getting dressed. Have you decided which suit you want to wear?”

His nose wrinkled. “I don’t want to wear a suit.”

She chuckled. “Well, I certainly don’t mind you going without clothes, but Mr. Jefferson may have some objection.”

Amusement flickered over his features. “It’s not as if I’m naked at the moment.”

“Alas.” She bit her lip a moment later; flirting had been a fraught area for them lately.

“Naughty girl,” he scolded, laughing softly, to her relief. Then his brow creased and he turned his face into the pillow to cough lightly. “I’m tired. I want to sleep.”

“Do you want to reschedule?”

His smile turned a little mischievous at the suggestion. “I’m sure he’d love that.”

“If you’re not up to it—”

“I’m up to it. I’m just tired.” He pushed the blankets down, and gave a little shudder as his upper half was exposed to the air of the room.

“Cold? It is a bit chilly in here.” She’d have to see about sealing the window better now that the temperature was going down outside.

“I’ll be fine. The parlor will be warm. And I suppose I should put on a coat to receive the President.”

Getting him dressed properly was a chore, and by the time he was again seated in the wheelchair, a pillow propped behind him to ease his aching back, he was in a thoroughly foul humor. Sweat beaded on his temple from the exertion. She knew needing so much help for what was once the simple task of getting up and dressed frustrated and embarrassed him.

“Sir?” Robert asked, poking his head in the room. “The President has arrived. I seated him in the main parlor.”

“Thank you.” Alexander gave a long sigh as Robert disappeared.

“I can tell him to leave,” she offered, half-facetiously.

“Let’s get this over with.”

She pushed him through the door and down the hallway to the parlor, where Thomas Jefferson was seated on the sofa beneath the great portrait of George Washington. He rose, all lanky limbs and slack joints, and stretched out his hand. “Mr. Hamilton.” 

“You’ll forgive me for not standing, Mr. President.” Eliza pushed him forward to meet Jefferson’s hand, and noted with amusement that Alexander hadn’t phrased it as a question.

“Of course. And Mrs. Hamilton, lovely to see you.”

She couldn’t say the same, but she smiled politely. “Mr. President. Please, have a seat.”

“Thank you.” He folded himself back onto the sofa. “How are you feeling, Mr. Hamilton?”

Alexander’s head tilted slightly to the side. “Not very well, I’m afraid.”

Jefferson’s face contorted into what she supposed was meant to be sympathy.

The stiff, awkward faux-compassion rankled. She recalled Mrs. Washington writing to her about the trial of entertaining Jefferson after General Washington’s passing. She’d called it the worst day of her life. Eliza understood now, she thought, how that could have been true. To endure such suffering was one thing, but to have it exploited in such a nakedly political gambit was quite another.

“I had hoped to find you at your house in town. It’s a rather lengthy ride out to Harlem, isn’t it? Especially after coming all the way from Washington.” Jefferson seemed to think this was small talk.

“I apologize for inconveniencing you,” Alexander replied, though he sounded anything but apologetic. “I suppose I could have done you the favor of not surviving at all, and saved you the trip entirely.” 

Jefferson’s eyes widened in shock, and he cleared his throat, uncomfortable. “I didn’t mean….”

“Mm-hm,” Alexander dismissed, raising his hand to his lips to cover a cough. “Was there something in particular you wished to speak to me about, Mr. President? Because if you’ve come only to offer your well-wishes, I appreciate it, but I’d like to return to bed.”

“I won’t keep you, then. I only wanted to assure you that Mr. Burr will not be in contention for the Vice Presidency in the forthcoming election.”

Alexander smirked. “Surely you don’t expect me to believe that his disappearance from the ballot is on my account.”

A faint smile tugged on Jefferson’s lips in response. “Regardless, he’ll no longer be part of the administration when my new government is sworn in next year.”

“If,” Alexander said.

“Oh, yes, of course. If my new government is sworn in. You’ll be supporting Mr. Pinckney, I suppose?”

“Well, I’m not likely to lend my support to your campaign, Mr. President, unless you somehow find yourself running against Mr. Burr again. Which seems unlikely, given the state of things.”

“Right. And your party is aware that you’re in no condition to be considered yourself.” Jefferson held a question in his eyes, though he phrased it as a statement. His gaze was locked on Alexander, looking for any hint or tell of what might be to come.

“If, unexpectedly, my fellow countrymen were to do me the honor of calling me to public service once more, I would, at that time, consider whether I was in the proper condition to answer.” Alexander’s expression was placid, a master politician at work.

Jefferson let the moment linger, no doubt hoping Alexander would give something away in the pause. He’d always used silence as his greatest weapon. Alexander remained calm and let the moment pass.

“Was there anything else, Mr. President? I really would like to go lie down. I’m still regaining my strength.”

“I wish you a speedy recovery, Mr. Hamilton,” Jefferson said, rising and reaching out to shake hands again. “Mrs. Hamilton.”

Eliza nodded again.

They both deflated when they heard the front door close, and Eliza collapsed down across from Alexander on the sofa. “That was exhausting. And it was less than ten minutes. We should have just barred him from the house,” she complained.

“Now it’s done.”

“You’re not really going to consider the Presidency if they throw their votes to you, are you?”    

“Betsey,” he said, eyebrows raised. “I can barely sit up for ten minutes without needing a nap. I’m in no condition to be running a country. And it’s never going to happen anyway. But I didn’t need to tell him that. Let him stew for a bit. I like being able to keep him up at night, worrying.”

“He really is concerned,” she observed.

“The electoral math is going to be closer than he expected,” he said.

“And that nonsense about Burr not being on the ballot. As if that’s enough to make up for what he did, even if it were a result of what happened, when he’s sheltering him in the capital at this very moment. Burr could have killed you. He almost did.”

“What would you have Jefferson do about it?”

“Turn him over to the authorities! He’s a wanted fugitive, for heaven’s sake. If New Jersey thinks he ought to stand trial for what he did, I say good. That he’s allowed to preside over the senate is a travesty.”

“Feel better getting that out?” he asked, an annoying little smile on his face.

She shrugged. “A little.”

She’d have felt better still if she could have shouted it at Jefferson himself, but Alexander never would have forgiven her. He’d been frustratingly tightlipped about Burr, and the little he did say tended to be words of forgiveness and a reluctance to see him tried. She suspected it was less a saintly ability to turn the other cheek, and more that he knew if he let himself be angry with Burr, he’d never stop. She certainly didn’t think she’d ever forgive the wretched man.

His eyes closed for a long moment. “Would you mind helping me back to bed, now, my angel? I really do need to lie down.”

“Yes, of course, sweetheart.”

**

Eliza generally tried not to disturb Alexander when he was asleep, especially when he was complaining about feeling tired, but she couldn’t seem to help herself that night. Their bed upstairs felt empty and cold without him. Slipping her dressing gown on, she peeked in on the little ones before padding downstairs.

She heard the coughing while she was still in the hall: a choking, wet, terrible cough.

“Honey?” she whispered as she eased open the door.

“Mm?”

“Are you up?”

“Mm.”

“That cough doesn’t sound good.” She sat down on the bed next to him and touched her hand to his cheek. His skin felt warm and clammy to the touch. She pushed his hair back from his forehead. “Oh, sweetheart. I thought we were done with this fever stuff.”

“I know,” he rasped.

“Do you want anything?”

“Sleep. I’m so tired.”

“Why don’t we prop you up a little,” she suggested, sliding another pillow underneath him. He rubbed his hand over his chest like it was sore. “Better or worse?”

“Better.”

“Is it alright if I sleep in here?”

“Yeah,” he muttered.

She settled herself in beside him, lying on her side. Her hand settled on his chest, rubbing gently, hoping to render some relief. He was supposed to be getting better, recovering. This felt like slipping backwards.

She’d barely drifted off when she heard him inhale and choke horribly. Eyes flying open, she tucked her arm around his waist and pulled him over onto his side. “Turn over, darling. On your side. Come on.”

He turned his face into the pillow, his whole upper body lurching with the force of his coughing fit. She reached blindly towards the side table for a handkerchief, and held it out to him. He wiped his mouth, panting slightly.

“It’s all right, honey. We can change the pillowcase. Did you get up the phlegm?”

“Betsey?”

“Yeah?”

“I can’t breathe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little cliffhanger there--sorry! The path to recovery never does run smooth. 
> 
> How Hamilton's presence might have changed the election of 1804 is interesting to think about. Jefferson won in a landslide, taking every state but Connecticut and Delaware, which went to the Federalist candidates Charles Cotesworth Pinckney and Rufus King. The thing was, the party was thoroughly demoralized, and they basically didn't campaign at all. Hamilton being alive might have given them the will to fight a little, especially if Hamilton was popular up north. Pinckney still would have needed to sweep from Pennsylvania north in order to get to 89 electors to beat Jefferson, which still seems pretty unlikely, but Jefferson might have needed to work for it a little more.


	4. Alex, October 1804

**October 1804**

The intricate French clock on the mantle chimed the hour, drawing Alex’s attention away from the heavy legal tome he’d been studying. Rubbing his hands over his eyes, he pushed back from the card table. Afternoon was bleeding slowly into evening, and Mama had yet to leave the sickroom to take rest or nourishment for herself.

His perfunctory knock on the door shattered the quiet in a way that made him wince. There’s a new reverence to the small back bedroom that reminds Alex of a church. It made sense, he supposed. A miracle had preserved his father’s life that summer, and again not a week ago. The sickroom had become a sacred space, such that even little Phil didn’t dare pitch a tantrum too near.

No answer came, not that he’d been expecting one. He eased open the door to find his mother and father curled into each other on the bed. The last of the days’ autumn sunshine danced across the floorboards, chasing the shadows the cozy fire in the grate couldn’t reach.

It’s a familiar scene. Mama and Papa had a way of fitting together that made them look like two puzzle pieces God had designed to be slotted into place. Papa’s chin rested atop Mama’s head, their arms tangled over each other, Mama’s leg hooked behind Papa’s knee. The impression of a perfect fit stretched back as far as Alex could remember, unchanged no matter how their bodies had transformed over the years: not when Mama has heavy with child, and not now, when Papa looked so thin and frail he might fade away into nothing.

Papa coughed, a deep, wet, painful cough. His breath rattled ominously even after the fit had passed, a wheeze accompanying each hard fought inhale. Mama’s arms tightened around him, anchoring him into place.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” Mama coached gently, her voice a soft coo in Papa’s ear. “That’s it. Just breathe.”

“Mama?”

Her head shifted slightly against Papa’s chest so she could see him. “What is it, dear heart?”

“You should go get something to eat,” Alex said. Mama frowned. “You need to eat, Mama, to keep up your strength. You haven’t had a thing since breakfast. I’ll stay here and watch over Papa.”

Mama’s head shifted again, nestling back into Papa. Her fists closed into the fabric of his nightshirt, her knuckles white from her grip. He wondered for a moment if she had simply chosen to ignore him in favor of sinking back into her husband.

Never once had he doubted that his parents adored him, adored all of them. Love and warmth emanated from around them whenever they were together, enveloping their children easily as extensions of their love for each other. But a whole world existed between them that had a tendency to make even their children feel like outsiders on occasion. As he grew older, Alex often wondered if he’d ever find someone he could fall into that deeply.

“You’re right, darling,” Mama said at last, the words muffled by Papa’s shirt. “I do need to eat something.”

She whispered something more to Papa, her lips close to his ear, then pressed a kiss to his forehead before easing away from him. Papa barely stirred as she rose from the bed, his hand falling limply to the mattress. Was he asleep, Alex wondered, or simply too weak to move?

“I’ll be right back. You’ll keep an eye on him?” Mama confirmed.

“I won’t leave his side.”

She smiled weakly and patted his arm as she walked by.

Another harsh, barking cough came from Papa as Alex settled into the chair by the bed. Tentatively, he reached out to touch his father’s back. A sharp shoulder blade jerked beneath his hand. The confidence with which he’d just sent his mother away disappeared in an instant, leaving him with a childish desire to call an adult for help.

“Papa?”

Papa was wheezing again, his chest heaving with the effort to breathe. Alex stood, and, gently as he could, eased Papa over onto his back the way he’d watched Mama and Doctor Hosack do several times. The repositioning seemed to help some.

“Do you need another pillow?” Alex asked. Mama often added one when Papa’s breathing became particularly labored. Sitting up seemed to help him.

Papa swallowed weakly, gave another unproductive cough, then sank into the pillows, energy spent. Alex took his stillness as a no, and seated himself into the chair again. Not sure what else to do, he placed his hand over his father’s, and squeezed lightly.

Alex hadn’t been home that awful night. He’d only just sent the letter to Mr. Higginson, turning down the mercantile position at the Boston firm in favor of apprenticing himself to Mr. Harison, his father’s law partner, here in New York. He knew Mama hadn’t liked the idea of him being so far away, and he’d wanted to be close, to help as much as he could while his father recovered. But even working right in town had proved too far away, still.

James had shaken him awake that night, frantic. “Alex! Alex, wake up! It’s Papa. I’ve just been to summon Doctor Hosack. Something’s wrong with Papa.”

“Papa? What’s wrong? What happened?” Alex had asked, bleary eyed as he pushed himself up in bed. Panic had gripped him so strongly, abject terror that Papa had died and he hadn’t even been there to say goodbye.

“I don’t know. He…he couldn’t breathe. Mama was so scared, and he….” Alex and Jamie had fought like cats and dogs for most of their lives, but seeing his younger brother so frightened had elicited a burst of protectiveness in him. He’d gathered Jamie up in his arms and hugged him tight. A choked little sob had forced its way out of Jamie as he’d repeated, “He couldn’t breathe, Alex.”

An inflammation of the lungs, Doctor Hosack had diagnosed by the time he and Jamie had arrived back at the house. “A common secondary affliction, unfortunately, prone to prey on those weakened and bedridden.”

“Is it fatal?” Alex had asked.

“Sometimes.” The fear in the doctor’s eyes had been the better answer. “Time and rest, and plenty of prayer. I’m afraid that’s all we can do for him now.”

He’d been alarmed at the advice to pray, certain it meant his father wasn’t long for this world after all; that the miracle that had preserved him had been little more than a cruel taunt by God. The way Papa continued to struggle to breath, Alex remained half convinced that’s all it had been still.

Papa’s eyes opened into slits, and his head rolled on the pillows to face him.

“It’s me,” Alex said. “Alex.”

Papa blinked, his eyes struggling to open further.

“Mama’s downstairs, getting something to eat,” he continued, though he wasn’t sure if his father understood. “She’ll be right back. I’m looking after you.”

“Alex?” His name sounded like it had been sliced by broken glass before escaping Papa’s throat. Still, the recognition loosened something in his chest, and a laugh that could have been a sob bubbled up.

“Yeah. It’s me.”

Papa’s hand twisted to squeeze his palm. “My dear…little lamb.”

A lump formed in the back of his throat at the endearment. How many times had Papa called him that over the years? How many times had he taken it for granted that Papa would say it again?

“I’ve started studying for the bar, Papa,” he said. “I don’t know if Mama told you. Judge Pendleton’s offered to help me, and Mr. Harison says I can study in your office. Mama suggested I go up to Albany to use Grandpa’s library, the way you did when you were learning the law, but I don’t want to go much farther than town while you’re unwell. Mr. Harison has me reading Blackstone. I’ve been struggling a little with torts. Maybe you can help me? When you’re better? I can’t quite figure out, what was that term, um…res ipsa….”

He was rambling, and he knew it. So much had happened in the months his father had been absent, starting with the graduation ceremony he had skipped, because celebrating when his father’s life dangled by the thinnest of threads had felt unbearably wrong. He’d felt untethered, confused, ever since. Papa was supposed to help him make plans once he finished with school. Being propelled so suddenly into adulthood had been a shock. Everything seemed to be pouring out now, prompted by the mere fact that Papa had been able to say his name. He felt like William as he babbled, desperate for attention, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself.

“Res ipsa loquitur,” Papa said around another wheezed breath.

Alex smiled. Sick and feverish as he was, of course Papa would still know that. “That’s it.” But Papa’s eyes had drifted shut again, before he could explain anything further about the confusing Latin term. Alex fought off a sense of disappointment.

Time, he told himself. That’s all. Papa needed time and rest, just like the doctor said. Please God, he prayed, please give him more time.

“I love you, Papa,” he said.

Papa’s hand twitched against Alex’s. He hummed, half asleep, and muttered, “Love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inflammation of the lungs was the period terminology for pneumonia, which can be a common complication when someone is bedridden. Ham's road to recovery is rocky and uneven, but he'll get there. This was a little bit of a shorter chapter, but it was fun to try out writing from Alex's perspective. I do want to delve more into the kids' lives as the story develops. Alex actually did graduate from Columbia about two weeks after Hamilton died. He didn't go to the ceremony, and, after turning down a position in Boston that would have taken him away from his family, ended up studying law with his father's old colleagues.


	5. Hamilton, November 1804

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Description of character suffering from mental illness in this chapter

**November 1804**

Alexander shoved the newspaper aside roughly, leaving it in a crumpled heap on the bed beside him. His hopes for the Federalists to sweep the Northeast in the election were quickly being dashed. Another four years of Jefferson loomed before them, a disheartening, not to mention dangerous, result.

Coughing weakly, he fought to push his weight up further against the pillows. His muscles were still shaky and weak from his long bout of illness, but he was recovering steadily. Hosack had felt confident enough in his recovery to start exercising his legs again during his last visit, and the doctor had recommended more upper body exercise as well. “You might even be able to lift yourself into your chair and propel yourself around, with some effort,” Hosack had suggested. The possibility of reclaiming some independence was enough to encourage him to test himself more.

A shrill scream cut through the quiet afternoon. Angelica, he identified immediately. She sounded close, just in the parlor behind him.

Without thought, he reached for the wheelchair beside him, pulling himself across the bed in a desperate bid to get to his daughter. The chair lurched forward from the force of his weight, and the loss of support sent him crashing to the hard floor, his legs thumping down uselessly behind him. He growled in frustration, thumping the chair with his fist and sending it careening even further away.

“There’s a face! A hideous face!” Angelica was sobbing hysterically.  

Eliza raced by the open door to his room, slid to a stop, and doubled back, gaping at him. He waved the hand not holding him off the floor towards the parlor. “Go. Go to Geli.”

She looked torn.

“Go,” he insisted.

Her lips drew into a thin, concerned line, but she obeyed.  

“Angelica? What’s the matter, sweetheart?” he heard Eliza asking.

“There! Just there! The devil’s in the mirror,” Angelica cried. “See how he grins?”

“There’s nothing in the mirror, honey. Only our reflections.”

“He’s there! He’s there! He’s come to take me!”

“Angelica—”

“You’re helping him! Get off me! No! I won’t go! I won’t go with you!” Angelica let out a wild scream, and he could hear the sounds of a scuffle.  

“It’s only us, Geli,” Jamie said, sounding breathless, no doubt fighting to restrain his sister from injuring herself. He must have come down from the other side of the house. The episodes tended to imbue Angelica with the energy she was so often lacking when she was withdrawn into herself, making her difficult to restrain. “It’s me, Jamie. See? Everything’s all right. No one’s going to hurt you.”

More footsteps came hurrying from both sides of the house. Alex appeared in the open doorway to the back bedroom, the same look of concern that Eliza had worn plastered over his features. “Papa? What happened?”

“I’m fine,” he said. “Go help your sister.”

“Half the household is out there helping. They’ll do without me,” Alex said. Alexander’s face went hot with humiliation as his son knelt beside him. “Are you hurt anywhere?”

“A few bumps. Nothing serious. A minor fall, that’s all.”  

“Let me help you up.”

Alexander pushed himself semi-upright, and flung one arm up over the mattress to help levy himself back up onto the bed. With Alex’s help, he was lying back on the mattress once more. Alex eyed the chair, which had bumped into the far wall after Alexander had shoved it.

“Do you want me to help you into the chair?” Alex asked.

Before he could answer, more scuffling broke out in the parlor, and Angelica let out another cry of fear and rage. “No!” she screamed, and Alexander heard her bare feet pounding on the floor as she ran towards the back of the house. She ran into his open door, crouched down in the corner of his room, and crossed her arms over her head, sobbing.

Eliza, Jamie, and two of their servants came rapidly on her heels, crowding into the room.

Angelica curled further in on herself.

He met Eliza’s eye, and said, “I think Angelica needs a little space.”

His wife hesitated, then nodded. “Everyone clear out for a few minutes. Come on.” She reached for Alex, and herded him and Jamie from the room. Before closing the door behind her, she mouthed to him, “Are you all right?”

He nodded once, and she closed the door.

Angelica remained shaking in the corner for several long, painful minutes. He let the quiet linger, afraid if he addressed her too soon, she’d withdraw even further into herself. At long last, he saw her peek out from her protective cocoon, staring at him curiously.

“Hi Geli bug.”

“Papa?”

“It’s me.”

She pushed herself up and inched forward towards the bed, wary. “Are you real?”

His heart broke at the hopefulness in her eyes. “I’m real.”

She considered him, lips pursed. “Pip feels real, sometimes. Then, sometimes, I know he’s not. It’s hard to tell.”

“That’s all right, honey.”  

“I remember you got hurt,” Angelica said, head tilting sideways.

“I did.”

“Everybody cried a lot. Especially Mama.”

“Yes.”

“Because you died.”

“No, sweetheart. I didn’t die. I’m right here.”

“Pip never remembers, either. He gets mad, sometimes, when I tell him. He doesn’t like being dead.” A chill went through him at her words, but she didn’t seem to notice. She inched forward again, and reached out to touch the bedspread. “You’re not mad at me, right Papa?”

“No, Geli. I’m not mad at you.”

She crawled up onto the bed and curled up beside him. “There was a face, Papa. A face in the mirror. The devil was looking at me. He wanted to take me to hell.”

He fought the urge to tell her the face was all in her imagination. Her fear may not be rational, but it was real. Gathering her closer, he kissed the top of her head. “He can’t get you in here. I’ll keep you safe.”

She sank into him, seeming to relax, but then let out a whimper and clapped her hand over her ear. “Shut up! Shut up!”

“Sweetheart?”

“The walls are full of whispers. Whispers, whispers, whispers. Can’t you hear them?”

“No, sweetheart. I can’t.”

“I don’t like them, Papa. They never stop. Always whispering.”

He kissed her hair again. Now that she suspected he’d joined Pip in death, she seemed freer with sharing her experiences with him. She so rarely opened up to them about the torments in her mind. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

She craned her head around, tense, as though listening for something. “Pip’s calling for me. He wants to play.”

“Pip will wait. Stay here with me.”

She frowned, then cuddled closer, and eventually dozed off lightly against him.

The door cracked open a little later. Eliza peeked her head in, a small, relieved smile pulling at her lips at the sight within. He held a finger to his lips.

“Sleeping,” he mouthed.   

Eliza padded in and ran a hand through their daughter’s hair. Her expression was soft as she looked at her, and it remained so when her gaze drifted towards him. “Thank God you were here,” she whispered to him.

Eliza would have been able to calm her just as ably, he was sure, but he didn’t argue.

**

“You’re sure I shouldn’t summon Doctor Hosack?” Eliza asked, frowning at him.

He was sitting up in the parlor, glasses perched on his nose and a book in his lap. He’d bumped his bruised elbow against the armrest of his chair when he’d gone to turn the page. The resulting wince hadn’t escaped his wife’s careful attention. Smiling, he assured her once again, “I’m fine. Bruises are rarely fatal, my dear.”

“That was a bad spill you took. You might have injured your back, or your legs. I really think the doctor should take a look at you.”

“Betsey—”

“You thought you were fine when the inflammation of your lungs was taking hold last month, too. And I nearly lost you again as a result. You’re not always right, you know.”

“How dare you, Madam,” he said with a quick inhale, holding a hand to his chest. His mock offense prompted a reluctant smile from her. He pulled a face at her, and grinned when it made her break out into a laugh, an endearing little snort expelling from her nose.

A knock on the door caused them both to look towards the entryway. The sky outside the parlor was a brilliant shade of pink and violet, afternoon having firmly given way to evening, an hour far too late for a casual visitor. “You didn’t send for the doctor without telling me, did you?”

“No. Though I should have,” she said, standing up from the sofa. She brushed a hand over his shoulder as she passed him on her way to the foyer.

He heard murmured voices, then the door shut again and Eliza returned to the parlor, face now devoid of color. “What happened?”

She held out a letter to him, her hands shaking slightly. He took it from her, and watched with concern as she sank back onto the sofa. Swallowing thickly, she said, “Special messenger. From Philip Jeremiah. You open it.”

Alexander ripped into the message, his eyes scanning the page. A weight of grief settled into his stomach as he read the hastily written news.

“It’s Papa, isn’t it?” she asked.  

He nodded, looking up at her again.

“I knew it. As soon as I saw….” Her face crumpled.

With great difficulty, he seized the wheels of his chair and pushed himself across the few inches of distance to the sofa. His bruised arms protested the effort, but no discomfort could have stopped him from getting to his wife. “Come here, honey,” he invited, opening his arms. She latched on to him, buried her face in his shoulder, and cried.

Alexander rubbed his wife’s back soothingly, tears gathering in his own eyes. The old General had long been in feeble health, and the loss of his beloved wife Kitty had weakened him still further. Even so, though the news ought not to have been surprising, it came as a terrible shock.

“I didn’t know he was so sick,” he said.

Her voice was thick with tears. “I knew he was declining, but…I didn’t realize it would be so fast.”

“I wish we’d gone up to see him.”

“You weren’t in any condition to travel,” she said. “You’ve only just started feeling better.”

“You could have gone, at least.”

“I couldn’t leave you.”

That made him feel worse. His own health crisis had kept his wife from seeing her dying father one last time. “I’m sorry.”

She shook her head against him. “Don’t be. I wouldn’t have left you for all the world while you were so sick.”

“Still—” Guilt and grief were heavy in his gut.

She hugged him tighter, her hold fierce. After a long moment of silent embrace, she confided, “I’ve learned to arm myself with Christian resignation against the misfortunes and evils of this world, as you always insist, but I thank God for preserving you. I don’t know how I’d go on through so much loss and heartache if He’d taken you from me, too.”*

“Shh. No need to dwell on that, my love. I’m right here, getting stronger every day.” He sniffled, and rolled his face into his opposite shoulder to wipe away the tears rolling unchecked down his cheeks. He tried to pull himself together that he might better comfort her. Despite all the misery and pain he’d suffered, that he could be here now for his wife and children did indeed feel worthy of a grateful prayer.

“I love you so much,” she said, hardly audible but for the fact that she was speaking in his ear.  Her breath was quick and hot against his neck.

He squeezed her to him, just as fiercely as she held him, and whispered, “I love you, too, my darling Betsey.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The language about arming herself with Christian resignation comes from a letter from Hamilton to Eliza, dated 19 April 1797. Her father was ailing at the time, and Hamilton recommended Eliza come to Albany to see him, in case the end was near. 
> 
> More tragedy in this chapter, but Ham's coming back to himself, slowly but surely. Poor Angelica, and poor Eliza. On a historical note, Philip Schuyler passed away on November 18, 1804, which was a mere 4 months after Alexander's death. Within a five year span, Eliza had lost her sister Peggy, her son, her mother, her husband, and her father. Sadly, the division of Schuyler's estate also caused a rift and protracted litigation between Eliza and her two younger sisters, Catherine and Cornelia.
> 
> Regarding Angelica, I've mentioned this before, but the fact that she had to suffer through this at a time when mental illness was so poorly understood breaks my heart. I can hardly imagine the helplessness Ham and Eliza must have felt trying to care for her, when there was so little information about what was wrong. They loved her so much, though, and really did a great job caring for her. For more info, I made a blog post regarding Angelica [here](https://aswithasunbeam.tumblr.com/post/181910383163/i-still-dont-quite-understand-what-happened-to). The amazing @philly-osopher also made a great addition to that post, speculating based on Angelica's symptoms that she may have been suffering from schizophrenia, which you can read [here](https://aswithasunbeam.tumblr.com/post/182020097653/i-still-dont-quite-understand-what-happened-to).


	6. Eliza, March 1805

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter includes some sexual content.

**March 1805**

A quick, efficient knock on the bedroom door jolted Eliza awake. Eyes closed, she struggled, pinned down on her back, a great weight holding her paralyzed in place. Upon hearing a soft snuffle near her ear, though, she relaxed. Alexander, she recognized fondly. He must have rolled over on her in his sleep.

“Good morning, Mrs. Hamilton.” Mary had slipped into the room bearing a tray with her morning tea, coffee for Alexander, and a stack of newspapers.

Eliza fought to lift her head and wrestled her arm out from beneath the weight of her husband. “Good morning, Mary. Just set that on the side table, if you would.”

When the door had tapped closed behind the maid, Eliza rested her head back onto her pillow. Alexander was still snuffling against her neck. She debated pushing him off her back onto his side. Instead, she ran her fingers through the short, gentle curls of his rapidly greying hair and wrapped her free arm around his shoulders.

Soon enough, she felt him stirring against her. He gave a sleepy grunt, adjusted the arm slung across her, and pushed himself backwards onto the pillows that had propped him up on his side during the night. “Sorry.”

“That’s all right, dearest.”

“You could have shoved me over.”

“I didn’t want to.”

His brow raised in amusement, though his eyes were still closed. “You’d rather let me keep crushing you?”

“Yes.”

He laughed, then gave a great yawn. Snuggling down into his pillows, he said, “I’m sleepy. You kept me up too late.”

“I didn’t hear you complaining last night,” she parried.

He grunted again.

A tingle washed over her at the memories of the night before. They’d always had a very physical relationship, and as Alexander had grown stronger, so too had their hope for the return of their love life. After a candid conversation with Doctor Hosack about Alexander’s desire to return to his husbandly duties, as he’d politely phrased it, they’d taken the doctor’s advice to experiment.

“It’s certainly not impossible for you to resume your usual intimacies, although you may find arousal more difficult to achieve and maintain,” Hosack had explained, his slightly pink cheeks the only hint to any discomfort with the subject matter. “But I have no medical objection. You’ll simply need to find what feels good for you, now.”

And so, last night, when she’d climbed into bed with him, a boyish grin of anticipation had lightened the deep lines of his face as he’d said, “You’ll need to be on top from now on, I suppose.”

“So, not all that different, then,” she’d teased.

He’d given an indignant squawk. “What are you saying? I’m a lazy lover?”

“Never, darling,” she’s assured him. “Quite the contrary.”

In truth, she’d been delighted at his determination to make love again. As he’d climbed out from the dark depths of illness and despair, he’d taken to exercising, a distinct, firm layer of muscle forming on his arms and torso in place of the sickly, skeletal thinness. His hair had started to grow out as well, still short, but less severe. All in all, she found him as utterly desirable as she always had.

He was particularly sensitive along his lower abdomen, just where sensation began for him, they’d found. That had seemed a promising discovery at first, but as soon as she’d lifted his shirt, he’d tensed. Craning his neck, he’d looked down at his stomach, a pinched expression on his face.

“What’s wrong?”

“Don’t they bother you? The scars?”

A long, bright pink line wound its way down from up near his sternum, around his belly button, terminating just at his waist. Across from the line, near his hip, a pink, raise circle marked him where Burr’s bullet had entered. She traced her finger down along the line before looking up at him.

“This scar,” she said, continuing to trace the line lightly with her fingertips even as she maintained eye contact with him, “This is why you’re still with me. This scar saved your life. To me, it’s the most beautiful mark on you.”

His eyes had gone bright, and he swallowed once, fighting down emotion. “Really?”

“Really.”

He’d relaxed to her touch after that. She’d teased him with feather light touches and soft kisses across the slope of his stomach until he’d moaned with pleasure. Receptive as he was, it wasn’t translating as it usual would to visible arousal. After an hour of attempting to make love in the more traditional way, with little result, he’d grown frustrated. He had other ways to please her, and he’d employed them with great skill, but his lacking sensation remained a challenge. She’d need to give more thought to how best to return the favor, as it were.

She felt warm all over from her wandering thoughts. Chancing a glance at her husband, she saw his eyes were finally open, and he was smirking at her knowingly. With faux innocence, he asked, “What are you thinking about?”

“You,” she said. Then she kissed him to wipe the smugness from his expression. His eyes drifted closed when she pulled away. “You know, you can go back to sleep, sweetheart.”

“I can’t.” He yawned again. “I have too much to do today.”

Her brow furrowed. “What are you doing?”

He looked at her, his expression turning serious. “Well, I’m meeting with your sisters’ attorneys and the other Executors of your father’s Will this morning.”

She huffed in annoyance at the reminder. “I can’t believe Cornelia and Caty. Of all the petty things, to insist I’m not due my share of the estate because Papa helped us after your injury. And they must know he’d be so disappointed to see us squabbling.”

“Grief very often doesn’t bring out the best in people. I’ve seen it enough in my practice. No mediations are more vicious then a family attempting to divide up an estate. And, in fairness, I think it’s more Morton and Malcolm’s doing then Cornelia and Caty. They see it as an opportunity to pad their investments.”1

“That’s hardly better,” she insisted, anger roiling in her stomach. “We were always so close. After all you did supporting Cornelia and Washy, that they’d turn on you like this, it just…” Her hand waved between them as she searched for a phrase. “It...steams my gourd.”

That made him laugh. “What does that even mean?”

“Oh, hush you. Don’t laugh at me when I’m angry.”

“I can’t help it. You’re adorable when you’re angry.”

She sniffed in disbelief, which only encouraged him to lean in for another kiss. Softening, she said, “I’m sorry. All this stress, I haven’t been at my best lately.”

“I love you at your best, and at your worst, and all the times in between.”

“Charmer.”

He grinned.

“Can I come with you? Perhaps seeing each other face to face will help settle the matter.”

“They won’t be there. Just the lawyers. And I’ll be going straight on to another meeting after, anyway.”

“What else are you doing?” she asked, surprised.

“I have a settlement conference regarding an insurance claim in the afternoon.”

“What?” That was news to her. He hadn’t said anything about picking up his legal practice again. “Are you sure you’re ready for that? It’s barely been half a year since...everything.”

“I’ll be fine. It’ll hardly be taxing. I could negotiate these things in my sleep. I think I may have a few times.” She smiled at that. “It’s time I start bringing in an income again.”

“If you’re sure,” she said, worrying gnawing at her.

“I am.” He stretched and twisted around towards the tea tray, feeling for the morning papers. “Let’s see what’s going on in the world, shall we?”

He opened the New York Post first, laying the others down in the space between them. The Washington Federalist sat on the top of the pile. Her eye caught on a name in the topmost headline: Burr. The villain had given a farewell address to the Senate, apparently to great acclaim, or so the paper reported.  “The whole senate was in tears,” the article read, “so unmanned, that it was half an hour before they could recover themselves.”2

“Have you seen this?” she asked, her voice an octave higher than usual, outrage coursing through her. Barely six months earlier the man had attempted to murder the love of her life; now he was receiving accolades, and from a Federalist newspaper no less?

“Burr?” Alexander clarified, annoyingly calm. “I’ve seen it. Have you gotten to the part of the speech where he thanks God for having no memory for injuries?3 I found that particularly amusing.”

“How dare they!”

“Betsey—”

“He tried to kill you, Alexander. But for the miracle of French surgical training, you’d be cold in your grave right now. I cannot even fathom what would have become of me and the children. And your own Federalists see fit to laud him for a bit of oratorical showmanship?”

“I didn’t die, as you can plainly see,” he replied patiently. “And they’ve been feeling more kindly towards him ever since the Chase trial.”

“From what I read, his treatment of Justice Chase bordered on harassment. Constant interruptions, he nearly drove the poor man to tears.”

“He gave Chase a dose of his own medicine. I can’t hold that against him. More importantly, he ran the trial with impartiality and civility, and saw it through to the right result. That Jefferson attempted to impeach a Supreme Court Justice for the crime of disagreeing with him politically, now that…what was it, steams my gourd?”4

He was trying to be cute to charm her out of her temper, she knew, but she refused to let him. “Could you be serious for one minute?”

“I am being serious.”

“You’re trying to change the subject to Jefferson.”

“He’s the one I’m worried about now. Four more years. Heaven help us.”

“Stop being so cool and logical! You must be angry with him, I know it. Why can’t you just show it for once? You’re driving me insane with your.…”

“Forgiveness?”

“Yes!”

“An odd position, for you of all people.”

“Why can’t you just hate him with me?”

He rolled closer to her, the newspapers crumpling between them. “I was angry with him, at first. I hated him, blamed him. But I was as much to blame, Betsey. More so, honestly. I had the opportunity to uphold my moral convictions, to make a stand against that barbaric custom. And I didn’t. I held my reputation too dear, I was too frightened of what others would think of me. In trying to prove myself not a coward, I made the most cowardly decision of all. I risked your happiness, your livelihood, the children’s welfare, for my selfish purposes. I can’t blame Burr for any of that. Neither can you. If you hate anyone, it should be me.”

Her throat felt tight at the guilt swimming in his eyes. So that’s why he’d been so forgiving towards Burr – he’d been using him as a proxy for his own guilt. He must have been carrying those painful thoughts for so long, all that self-blame. She inched closer to him on the pillow until they were nose to nose, her arm wrapping tight around his waist to draw him to her.

“He challenged you, sweetheart. He put you in that position.”

“I didn’t have to say yes.”

But he did, she thought to herself. Of course he’d had to say yes. There was an innate insecurity in him that made him constitutionally incapable of exposing his reputation to the charge of dishonor. The sting of childhood wounds, the fear that he wasn’t good enough, even now, after all his service to a country that delighted in abusing him. He could no more change that part of him than he could wish away his brilliant mind.

None of that would serve as an answer.

“I forgive you,” she said, simply, sincerely.

He shook his head. “Don’t.”

“I do. I forgive you, Alexander. Always.”

“Why?”

“Because I know you. And I love you, for exactly the person you are.”

He let out a ragged breath and buried his face into the pillow and her hair. He wasn’t crying, exactly, but he seemed to be fighting a great swell of emotion. She rubbed his back tenderly, letting him work through his thoughts in the quiet.

When he peeked up at her again, his eyes were a little damp.

“Feel better?”

“My angel. Whatever did I do to deserve you?”

“You don’t have to deserve me, Alexander. You just have me, forever,” she promised.

He was still struggling with emotion when she heard the door easing open. The pitter-patter of flat feet followed, and little Phil appeared, pulling himself up onto the bed. He clambered over his father, plopping down into the minuscule space in between them.

“Good morning, my little lamb,” Alexander greeted, wiping at his eyes and plastering on a smile. “What have you got there?”

Phil pressed a story book into his father’s hands.

“Want a story before we start our day?”

Phil nodded, burrowing down between them. Eliza rubbed the little boy’s back as she watched Alexander flip through the book.

“How about this one?”

Phil jabbed a chubby little finger at the blanket beneath him, ignoring his father's question. “What color’s this, Papa?”

Alexander squinted at the spot where his son's finger was pointing. “Green.”

“Good job, Papa! What’s this one?”

He was clearly trying hard to suppress a laugh. “Red.”

“Good Papa!” Phil patted at his arm, encouragingly.

“You know, my dear fellow, I think we’ve got this a little backwards. I’m meant to test you on your colors, not the other way round.”

“What's this one?” Phil asked, undeterred.

“Pink,” Alexander answered, tickling the boy and pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. Phil squealed with laughter, wriggling between them like a dancing worm.

Alexander glanced up at her, catching her eye, expression radiating only joy and contentment now.

She grinned back at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Cornelia and Caty, Eliza’s two younger sisters, were actually involved in a lawsuit with Eliza after their father’s death, where they argued that she should receive a lesser piece of the Schuyler Estate because of all the assistance her father had given her after Alexander’s death. The Schuyler Mansion has a great blog post about the resulting lawsuit and its effect on the sisters’ relationship [here](http://schuylermansion.blogspot.com/2018/07/schuyler-siblings-land-squabble.html).  
> 2 Washington Federalist, March 13, 1805.  
> 3 The piece about having no memory for injuries was in fact part of Burr’s famous farewell address – an ironic sentiment from a man who was still under indictment for murder in two states.  
> 4 The impeachment trial of Justice Samuel Chase in early 1805 is a historical event for which Burr rightfully gets a lot of credit. Jefferson pushed to have Chase impeached for political reasons, and, had he been successful in removing Chase, the independence of the Judiciary would have been severely compromised. As Vice President, Burr oversaw Chase’s trial in the Senate. Though he was far from easy on Chase, he was very fair, and the Senate acquitted Chase on all counts. 
> 
> Apologies for the long delay - I try not to go more than two weeks between updates, but sometimes life has other ideas! Hope the chapter was worth the wait!


	7. Hamilton, March 1807

**March 1807**

A fork clattered onto the floor as Hamilton’s morning coffee splattered across the clean, white tablecloth. His newspaper had a smear of syrup streaked across an advertisement on the back page from where he’d slammed it onto his plate, his eyes wide as he read the latest news of Burr’s supposed plot to make himself an emperor. “Burr’s been arrested!” 

“Alexander,” Eliza sighed. She adjusted the inkwell he’d upset on the table, moving it further away from the ledger she’d been scratching in all morning. “Was that really necessary?”

“Here, Papa,” James said, reaching down to retrieve the fork from the floor.

“Look at this!” He scanned the front page again, taking in more of the details around the arrest. “Burr was discovered in the Mississippi territory. Nicholas Perkins took a detachment of men to Major Hinson’s home, after giving instructions to two mysterious men. One of the men ‘had on a white hat with a brim rather broad than otherwise, a long beard, a checkered Hankerchief around his neck, and  a great coat belted around him to which as hanging a tin cup on one side and butchers knife on the other.’ This reads like a scene from a damn novel.”1

“Alexander,” Eliza’s voice turned sharp as she glanced pointedly at William, who was watching him with rapt attention.

His eyes continued to scan over the accounts of the arrest and Burr’s subsequent escape. “They have him in disguise, fleeing from Federal forces. They’re already laying the groundwork for a treason charge. This is outrageous.”

“Is it?” Eliza asked coolly.

“Ugh, and this: ‘Burr was a great rascal when he attempted to kill Hamilton.’ Ha! As if they cared. But now the Federalists believe that as Burr seeks ‘to divide the Union, destroy the Constitution, turn Congress out of doors, assassinate Jefferson, and establish a monarchy – he is a pretty clever fellow again!’”2

“Did Mr. Burr plan to assassinate President Jefferson as part of his plot?” James asked, craning his neck to look at the paper for himself. “I hadn’t heard that.”

“Nobody’s heard it. Jefferson’s lost his mind. He’s descended into paranoid delusions. There’s no way he can actually believe any of this, can he?”

“Why shouldn’t he?” Eliza removed her spectacles and set down her quill. “Burr’s proven himself plenty dangerous when provoked. And he hasn’t distinguished himself as a paragon of loyalty or virtue recently, either, has he?” 

“That was different. Burr didn’t hide in the bushes to attack me from the side of the road like an assassin. He called me out as a gentleman. It was my own folly that I answered him.” He looked at James as he spoke, hoping to instill with words the example he’d so spectacularly failed to set with his actions.

“I don’t know anything, except I watched you almost die because that fiend had his feelings hurt over a newspaper article. Perhaps Jefferson isn’t so far off the mark on this.”

“It’s the beginning of our very own reign of terror, Eliza. Don’t you see? No better than a witch hunt.”

“You’re so certain Burr’s not a witch?” she asked, seizing the metaphor.

“That’s the sort of thinking that leads to mass hysteria.”

“He’s ambitious. Viciously so. He’ll stop at nothing to get what he wants. I, for one, don’t think the charges against him are so outrageous.”

“Only because you’re still angry with him.”

“Yes.” She looked hard at him, unrepentant of her position.

“That’s a reason to let him hang for a crime that lives almost entirely in Jefferson’s imagination?”

“You don’t know that. You’ve been as quick to judgment as everyone else. You’re so set against Jefferson, that you’re willing to believe the best in a man who tried to kill you not so long ago. Burr’s committed crimes enough to justify me believing the worst.”

He stared at her for a long moment, unused to disagreeing with her so vehemently about politics. It’s not that she blindly took his side on things typically, but even where their opinions diverged, she wasn’t usually so concerned that she’d spend much time arguing with him over it. Not unless he asked her to, of course, so that he might better craft his own arguments.

She was hard set against Burr, though, uninterested in any view that set him as a pawn in Jefferson’s bid to take power for himself. Which made the idea formulating in his head even more problematic.

So much was happening in the wider world, while he stayed ensconced in New York, taking on paltry insurance cases and coming home to his family each evening. He’d needed that while he recovered: the predicable schedule, the short hours, the cocoon of his loving home. But he was starting to chafe at the restriction now. Burr was being chased across the continent like a desperado while he sat safe in his country retreat.

“The trial will be in Richmond over the summer,” he observed.  

Her mouth drew into a tight line.

“That’s not such a great distance away, really. Especially considering I’ll be going to Philadelphia for work already—”

“No.” She doesn’t raise her voice, but her nostrils have flared, anger boiling behind her dark eyes. The refusal left no room for argument.

He fought not to bristle at the abrupt interruption. “We could take the little ones with us. And time away would give me a chance to focus more on my new project. You know how hard it is for me to research and write with visitors and business on the doorstep at all hours.” 

“No, Alexander.”

“Betsey—”

She shook her head, pushed back from the table, and snapped her ledger book shut.

**

She avoided him for much of the rest of the day.

It wasn’t hard for her, exactly. She’d already been spending most of her time at the New York Orphan Asylum, after having been named Second Directress of the new organization. Her nose was constantly in her ledger book, tracking donations, paying bills, keeping the whole charity afloat as they housed, fed, and educated the most vulnerable and unfortunate children in the city.

It was well past dark when he finally heard the front door open. He was sitting in the parlor with little Eliza and Phil, an assortment of books laid out on the table before him as he scribbled notes down. His planned essay series on governments throughout history had been too long delayed by his injury, but with Gouverneur Morris and James Kent’s assistance, it was finally underway.

“Like this,” his younger daughter was explaining, holding her palms face out to her little brother. “Patty cake, patty cake, baker’s man, bake me a cake—no Phil, you clap my hands there. Watch again.”

Hamilton smiled at the children, though his shoulders were tense as he heard Eliza approaching. She paused in the entryway, watching their two youngest at play for a long moment before entering. Then he felt her gaze land on him. She regarded him silently, sighed, then came around to stand behind his chair. Her arms slid around him, her nose nuzzling his neck affectionately.

“Hello, my love,” she whispered. All traces of anger had gone.

“Hello,” he said, wary, but welcoming. “Are you done saving the world for the day?”

“Saving the world is a bit of a strong description for a day of balancing a budget and singing nursery rhymes.”

“I disagree.”

She laughed, soft and low, her breath a warm puff against his skin. “Of course you do.”

Relaxing back into her arms, he reached back to brush his hand over her cheek. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.” Her lips ghosted over his ear lobe. “Have you eaten?”

“Yes.”

“The children?”

“We all managed to feed and water ourselves in your absence. Much as I depend on you, I’m not as useless as that.” He made sure to keep the tone of his voice light. The work she had undertaken was as wonderful as it was important, but he knew it bothered her that it took her away from her own family for long stretches of the day.

“I know, sweetheart,” she assured him. “But it’s my prerogative to worry over you.”

Phil clapped as he finished the rhyme with his sister, their hands having moved perfectly in unison for the first time. “Again!”

“Faster, this time,” little Eliza said.

He and Eliza both laughed as they watched their two youngest flail their hands about, creating a flurry of little fingers. Phil, in his excitement, missed his sister’s hands completely and nearly sent her toppling backwards on the last clap. “Phil,” she whined.

“Again,” the little boy demanded.

“Maybe we should do it slower again.”

Eliza sighed behind him. “Are you ready to talk about our disagreement this morning?”

“If you are.” He hadn’t been the one to lose his temper and stalk out, after all.

She grasped at the back of his chair and wheeled him from the parlor to his office, clicking the door closed behind them. When she had him settled in front of the desk, facing the interior of the room, she sat down in the armchair before him, and waited. Apparently, this talk wasn’t going to begin with an apology, or an admission that she’d seen the error of her ways.

“I haven’t changed my mind,” he said.

Her jaw clenched.

“I want to go. I need to go. I’m tired of reading about momentous events in the papers, Betsey. If I’m not going to act, I might as well have died on the field that morning with Burr.”

“Don’t say that,” she snapped, pained.

“It’s true.”

“It’s not. You have me, our family, your law practice, your health, mostly. Why can’t that be enough? Why do you have to go meddle in business that has nothing to do with you?”

“It has everything to do with me. I live in this country. I spilled my blood to see it free. I’ll be damned if I let Jefferson drive us into a dictatorship, like the Napoleon of North America. For all he says about Burr, he’s the one in the prime position to seize power. I can see now why he felt so warmly towards the French Revolution.”

“Alexander.” No heat remained in the interjection, only a weary note of caution.

“This is important to me. Very important. This trial will go down in the history books one way or another, and I need to be a part of it. I can make a difference. I can ensure things turn out right. But I can’t do it without you. I need you with me. Please?”

She tilted her head slightly, then sighed again. “For you. And only for you.”

“I don’t understand why you can’t forgive Burr, when you forgave me so freely.”

“I’m not in love with Burr,” she answered immediately.

He laughed, then sobered, unsure how felt about that being the sole ground for his own pardon. “So, if you weren’t in love with me, you would still be nursing a grudge?”

“If I weren’t in love with you,” she echoed, seeming to turn the words over on her tongue. Her eyes closed for a long moment. “You know, I can’t begin to imagine such a world.”

He smiled at that. They were so tangled up with each other, their lives so tightly entwined, he hadn’t the first notion of what life would be like without Eliza’s love. “I hope I never live to see it.”

She rose, leaned in, and pressed a tender kiss to his forehead. “You never will.”

“So, you’ll come with me to Richmond?”

“Yes,” she agreed at last. “I’ll come with you. But I make no promise of cordiality towards Burr.”

“Just so long as you’re with me,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 From Nicholas Perkins to Caesar A. Rodney, March-April 1807, as cited by James E. Lewis, Jr. in “The Burr Conspiracy.”   
> 2 “Federal Facts and Arguments,” Virginia Argus, 27 March 1807, as cited by James E. Lewis, Jr. in “The Burr Conspiracy.” 
> 
> The whole run-up to Burr's Treason Trial was so bananas, I can only imagine it would have felt like reading a novel every time someone picked up the paper. From the end of 1806 throughout 1807, Burr was the center of the national spotlight, and so will he be for the next few chapters of this story. Had Hamilton lived, I feel sure he wouldn't have been able to resist placing himself right in the thick of the action, however much Eliza may have objected. 
> 
> UMKC School of Law has a great collection of resources about the Burr trial, including a romanticized engraving of Burr's thrilling arrest, if you're interested: [The Aaron Burr Trial: Selected Images](https://www.famous-trials.com/burr/158-images).


	8. Burr, July 1807

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just an FYI, if you've read my story "The Trial of the Century", this chapter won't be new for you.

**July 1807**

Sticky, chocolate covered fingers hover over the white knight on the chess board. Young Aaron’s piercing eyes peeked up at Burr from under his shaggy dark fringe. His grandson sought a hint for the wisdom of the move he was contemplating, Burr understood.

“Think it through, Gampillo,” Burr said as he rummaged in his pocket for a handkerchief. Theodosia has already scolded him for spoiling the boy with too many sweets. His grandson’s hand retracted slightly from the knight as his eyes scanned the board once more. Burr reached out to wipe the evidence of the chocolate square from the boy’s fingers and face.

Aaron squirmed backwards in his chair.

“Here you are, then,” Burr granted, handing the handkerchief over.

“Papa?” Burr glanced up guiltily at his daughter as she entered from the foyer. Her gaze swept briefly over her son’s chocolate stained fingers, prompting a fond shake of her head. She then returned her attention to her father, her expression turning inscrutable. “You have a visitor.”

He frowned. Who would be interested in paying him a social call at a time like this? Theo wouldn’t allow just anyone entrance to gawk at the so-called traitor, surely. His mouth parted to ask the identity of this unexpected guest, but a commotion in the hallway interrupted the thought. One of the decorative tables in the foyer had been upset, by the sound of it, the thud of ceramic on wood carrying in along with the squeaky whine of a wheel in need of oiling.

“Careful, Robert.” The soft voice had a slight rasp to it, but Burr recognized it immediately regardless.

Hamilton.

Burr felt his heartbeat quicken. He rose from his seat, then stood in place, feeling awkward and wrong footed at the abrupt appearance of a man he thought never to see again. What could Hamilton possibly want?

The front of the chair appeared first, blanketed feet resting motionless on the footrest as the bulky chair struggled through the narrow door. Theo moved to hold the door open as wide as possible. When at last the chair bumped over the divider on the floor, he looked upon Hamilton for the first time since that cursed morning at Weehawken.

Hamilton had been both absent and omnipresent to Burr for the length of his long convalescence. His hair had gone wholly gray in the intervening years, and wrinkles were prominent in his thin, haggard face. A hint of mischief still twinkled in his eyes, however, matching the quirk of his lips as he examined Burr in turn. Hamilton was enjoying this, Burr realized.

Burr remained frozen in place, his lips still slightly parted, searching for something to say. Should he be apologetic? Irreverent? Friendly? Hostile?

It was Hamilton who broke the silence, and his first words weren’t directed to Burr at all. Attention  on Theo, still holding the door, Hamilton said, “Thank you for your assistance, my dear.”

“I’m glad to see you so well, Mr. Hamilton.” Hamilton’s charming smile was mirrored on Theo’s face. She stooped down to the chair and placed a friendly kiss to Hamilton’s cheek, then waved a hand towards her son. “We’ll leave you to your business.”

“Traitor,” Burr mouthed when Theo caught his eye. She looked not at all amused at the little jest. The potential death sentence seemed to have robbed her of her sense of humor. 

As she swept from the room, Aaron in tow, Hamilton turned that charming smile on him. “I heard you were in need of a good lawyer, Mr. Burr.”

A disbelieving chuckle forced its way out of Burr’s chest. The gall of him, to refuse all communication, then appear when the trial of the century presented itself.  “Did you, now? Your intelligence was mistaken. I have plenty of lawyers, in fact. Six in all, including myself.”

“I’m certain I’m better than any of them. Especially you.” Burr laughed again, more genuinely this time. “Are you really in any position to refuse help?”

He can’t deny the truth of the statement, but he needn’t admit to it out loud. Instead, he asked with some incredulity, “Did you really travel all the way here on an assumption that I’d require your assistance? And does Mrs. Hamilton know you’re here? She must be beside herself.”

“Such concern for my wife, suddenly,” Hamilton charged, his brow raised. Burr shrank back slightly, a niggle of guilt beginning in his chest at the thought of the pain he’d caused Eliza. “She came with me, for the record. I was on business nearby, anyway.”

“In Richmond?”

“Philadelphia. Richmond isn’t much farther to travel.” That was a patent falsehood, and they both knew it. “So?”

“Why would you want to help me?”

“Because I dislike Jefferson more than you,” Hamilton said.

A rueful smile began on Burr’s face. “If only you’d come to that realization a few years ago, so much unpleasantness between us could have been avoided.”

“Oh, I still don’t think you should hold power.” Burr frowned heavily as Hamilton gave him a dismissive little wave. “But I’d hate to give Jefferson the satisfaction of putting you to death. He’s sounding more and more the vengeful tyrant every day.”

“Shouldn’t I be put to death? Fomenting rebellion in the West is treason, is it not?” 

“Are you guilty?”

It’s a good thing Hamilton rarely handled criminal matters, Burr considered, as he sank back into his seat and invited Hamilton closer. Hamilton’s servant obliged, wheeling the chair nearer. “You should know better than to ask a criminal defendant such a thing, Hamilton.”

“I never ask clients questions I don’t already know the answer to,” Hamilton retorted.

“Oh?”

“That you had designs on Florida and Mexico, I believe readily enough. I had thoughts of taking Florida for the United States myself once upon a time.” Burr smiled at the admission. “But Jefferson’s theory that you meant to use that plot as a cover for inciting rebellion in the Western states, that you might ride into the federal city and usurp the rightful government, smacks more of a deranged fever dream than an actual charge.”

Burr inclined his head. “I quite agree. As could the grand jury. Martin thinks they might decline to indict me, which would save us the whole business of a trial. You may have wasted a trip.”

Hamilton scoffed. “Of course they’re going to indict you. It’s a grand jury—they’d indict a loaf of bread if the prosecutor laid it before them.”

“Three grand juries before them declined,” Burr pointed out. “Two in Kentucky and one in Tennessee.”

“You’re being judged by Virginia gentlemen now, not the toothless, riotous simpletons of the back country.”  

“You know, it’s a wonder they don’t like you out there,” Burr said dryly.

Hamilton hummed, unconcerned. “Marshall is sensible, though. He’ll want to find in your favor. You need to give him reason to do so. The only real evidence for the prosecution is Jefferson’s imperial declaration that you are guilty beyond a doubt. That’s nothing in a court of law. The Constitution requires an overt act of war levied against the United States, observed by two separate individuals. As I understand it, you weren’t even there during the whole business on Blennerhassett Island. Does Wilkinson have any other circumstance to use against you?”

“My counsel is well aware of all this,” Burr said, ducking the question. “Why should I let you have the glory of arguing the case?”

Hamilton smirked as he gestured to his motionless lower half. “You’re right. For what could you possibly owe me a favor?”

“So it’s a favor, now? I thought this was for my benefit?”

Hamilton shrugged carelessly. “However you’d like to see it.”

“And you presume that I feel inclined to make amends.”

“I presume nothing.” Hamilton’s expression softened perceptibly. “I know you wish to make amends. I saw the regret on your face the moment I fell. You tried to run to my side; you would have, had Van Ness not caught you by the arm and forced you away.”

The scene overwhelmed Burr’s vision for a moment, the sun-dappled ridge, the smell of gun powder, Hamilton rising up on his toes before sinking downwards, a red stain spreading across his belly. He hadn’t meant to hit him, not really. He’d wanted vindication, an apology for the awful things Hamilton had said, not Hamilton’s death.

The hours, days of waiting, praying, that followed had been harrowing. Even when it was announced that Hamilton would not die, Burr hadn’t been safe in New York. A warrant went out for his arrest on the charge of dueling, though none had been issued against Hamilton. He’d fled Southward to safer ground, and hadn’t yet returned home.

“I would have paid you a call,” Burr began, the apology that had lived in his chest beginning to bubble out. “The timing didn’t seem appropriate. And then I had to leave—”

Hamilton sliced a hand through the air to cut off the explanation. “I wasn’t in any condition to receive you then anyway.”

They shared a long, quiet moment.

“You need me,” Hamilton insisted, jumping back to the topic at hand. “Your counsel is more than competent. I’m sure they will be able to convince Marshall and the jury that the prosecution lacks evidence to convict on such a serious charge. But a not guilty verdict won’t mean much if it appears to have been won on a technicality. You’ll win in the court of justice, but not in the court of public opinion. Then what? Flee back to the West, or to Europe?”

“And you’ll win over the public?” Burr can’t help the skeptical tone in his voice. Hamilton’s never exactly been popular with the people, outside of the passage of the Constitution and the first few months after his catastrophic injury.

“Jefferson’s people are lost to you, whatever you do,” Hamilton said. “But my support can win forgiveness from the Federalists. You could come home to New York.”

Burr hated just how good that proposal sounded.

“If they indict me,” Burr decided, emphasizing the first word, “We’ll talk.”

**

Burr fumbled in his pocket for the card with Hamilton’s current address scrawled across the back in his familiar, sloping hand. Two guards trailed behind him, allowing him one last stop before taking him to Luther Martin’s where he was to remain under house arrest. He was keenly aware of his conspicuousness as people peeked around curtains to watch his progress down the street. 

“I’m surprised you’re not staying with Marshall,” Burr had remarked when Hamilton had jotted down the address for him.

“He offered,” Hamilton had replied as he finished penning the Broad Street address with a flourish. “But it seemed rather a conflict of interest given what I was in town to do.”

Matching the number on the card to that of house before him, Burr took a steadying breath and tapped his cane against door twice. Theo had been the one who insisted he call on Hamilton. Now that the grand jury had handed down an indictment, the threat of death loomed large over them all, except for his dear little Gampy, who remained happily oblivious.   

A servant admitted him to a small parlor to wait. He paced anxiously for several minutes, painfully aware of his armed escorts waiting just outside, until he heard voices in the next room. Peeking his head out the door, he saw Hamilton and Eliza in the larger parlor across the way. Hamilton was bent forward in the chair, his arms braced against his knees, as Eliza tugged up his shirt to reveal his back and scooped something out of a small jar with her fingers.

“You’re in pain,” Eliza was saying, her expression severe. “Doctor Hosack said to apply the analgesic cream when you first feel a twinge, so it won’t get worse. And frankly, I don’t much mind keeping that man waiting.” The reference to Burr dripped with a loathing of which he hadn’t imagine the normally sweet, friendly woman capable.

Hamilton grimaced as his wife smoothed the contents of the jar gently over his spine. Her hand seemed to linger longer than necessary, savoring the touch. At last, she readjusted the shirt into place and moved to assist her husband back into his usual position.

“I can do it,” he snapped with an edge of frustration. She stood back patiently while he struggled to adjust himself up in the chair. The effort seemed to leave him mildly breathless.

“Hey,” she said softly when he was settled, prompting him to look up at her. Leaning down, she fussed with his blanket, and then pressed her lips to his in a slow, loving kiss. When she pulled back, her hands cupped his face in a gesture of cherishing adoration. “I love you.”

A smile tugged at his lips. “I love you, too.”

His gaze shifted towards Burr a moment later, and the smile disappeared. Eliza turned towards him as well, her eyes narrowing at the sight of him. Burr retreated back into the small parlor, uncomfortable at having witnessed the private moment.

The progress of the wheelchair towards the smaller parlor was audible. Burr remained standing, leaning on the mantle, while Eliza guided the chair into place opposite an arm chair. Hamilton tilted his head back to look at her.

“Could you give us a few minutes?”

“No,” she said, firmly.

“Betsey,” Hamilton sighed, a note of amusement entering his tone, “I hardly think I’m in any danger. What do you think he’s going to do to me in the middle of the parlor at three in the afternoon?”

“I never expected Mr. Burr would do anything to harm you.” Accusation and betrayal laced her words. Her hands rested protectively on the back of her husband’s chair as she spoke. Burr’s eyes went to the floor like a chastened child. “I have no interest in giving him the opportunity to prove me wrong again.”

“It’s fine,” Burr assured them both. “I'll only be a minute. I just came to say, well, to ask.…” He pushed out a breath. “The grand jury handed down an indictment. I'm to be held under house arrest at Martin's during the trial.”

Hamilton nodded, unsurprised.

“I need your help.” Burr couldn’t look at Eliza as he said it. He waited, half expecting Hamilton to grin or to gloat.

Instead, Hamilton gave him a reassuring smile. “It would be my pleasure, Mr. Burr.”

The relief that fluttered in his chest surprised him. He didn’t need Hamilton to assure victory in court, he knew. But his help promised something more than dodging a death sentence. The promise of forgiveness, of home, resided in Hamilton’s open expression. Unable to articulate the soaring feeling inside him, Burr managed only a whispered, “Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter well before I got underway writing this story, and posted it as a stand alone story. I like it as a stand alone, and I'm going to leave it up. I've been kind of writing towards it since I started Life Hereafter, though, I feel it's important to the flow of this story. I figured I'd post it at the same time as a different chapter, so nobody felt cheated out of new content :)


	9. Eliza, August 1807

**August 1807**

“Mr. Madison?”

Eliza stood with her hand upon the door at the entrance to their rented Broad Street townhouse. The Secretary of State was a step down on the stoop, his eyes not quite level with hers despite the inch or so in height he had on her. Color dusted his cheeks, and she could see the hint of high passion in his eyes, though he appeared to be doing his best to seem calm.

“Is your husband at home, madam?”

“He is.” She stepped aside to allow him entry. “I think he’ll be very surprised to see you.”

“I would imagine so.”

He followed her directions to the small parlor where Alexander had step up shop. Legal books and papers decorated every available surface, along with brandy glasses discarded by the formidable team of lawyers who gathered at all hours to discuss strategy. Eliza stepped into the room behind Madison, intent on tidying as an excuse to be sure all was well between the two. The idea of leaving her husband alone with any political rival these days sent her stomach into knots.

Madison wasted no time with greetings. “What on earth do you think you’re doing, Mr. Hamilton?”

Alexander didn’t even bother to look up from the outline he was amending. “Why, hello, Jemmy. I’m quite well, thank you for asking.”

“Oh, don’t start with that. If you want sympathy from me, you should stop with this farcical production. That you of all people would be here arguing in Burr’s defense defies all pretense of sanity.”

Eliza dusted beneath a stack of notes on various witnesses, the names of William Eaton, Peter Taylor, and Jacob Allbright all underlined with bulleted facts below each name. She forced herself not to make any noise of accession, though for once, she couldn’t fault Madison’s argument. That they were still in Richmond aiding that two-faced demon beggared belief.

Alexander looked up from his notes, and asked dryly, “Whatever could you mean?”

Madison made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. “For all the press coverage the upcoming trial is getting, no reporter from either faction seems to be able to keep straight that Burr attempted a military coup. You’ve turned the proceedings for an extremely serious charge into utter bedlam by inserting yourself. As I’m sure you intended.”

“Mr. Jefferson saw to that all by himself. Announcing publicly that Burr is guilty beyond all doubt isn’t exactly keeping his thumb off the scale of justice. The fear mongering from the administration is entirely out of step with reality.”  

“You’re so eager to fight with Jefferson that you’d defend the man who put you in that chair? Who nearly took your life? You of all people know what Burr is capable of when pushed.”

“Burr’s crimes against me are not at issue here. And perhaps you should take my involvement as a sign of how far astray Jefferson as wandered in this case. Or do you hold the document we both labored over so cheap? The Constitution defines treason without a hint of ambiguity. Jefferson’s only mad because he doesn’t have the evidence to make his case.”

“Burr had an infantry regiment ready to attack! Had things gone his way, the whole system of government might have collapsed already.”

“Or so Mr. Jefferson would like us to believe.”

“This is hardly politically motivated. And even if it were, are you in any position to comment? Look at all the effort you expended trying to bring Albert Gallatin up on treason charges when you were heading the Treasury.”1

“That was different.”

“How so?”

“Gallatin was guilty.”  

Madison spluttered, nearing apoplectic. His lips were moving soundlessly as he hunted for words, his cheeks ruddy with temper. Eliza moved to stand between him and Alexander.

“Would you care to sit down, Mr. Madison?” Eliza invited.

He looked back at her, then at the chair to which she was gesturing. “Oh, yes, thank you.”

“A brandy, perhaps?” she offered.

Alexander’s lips quirked, wise to her gambit. “A wonderful suggestion, my love.”

She poured out two glasses and handed them to Alexander and Madison. Madison took a small sip, laid the glass aside, and sighed. Calmer now, he began again in a more measured tone.

“I’m not looking to decide the case on it’s merits here and now. I’m only asking for you to leave the defense to the myriad of other attorneys currently employed by Mr. Burr.”

“Why? Are you worried I’m going to win?”

“I’m worried no juror is going to listen to the facts, because they’re too busy marveling at your presence at the defense table. It’s a stunt unworthy of you.”

“The novelty will wear off quickly enough.”

“I’m not so sure it will.”

Alexander sat back in his chair and gave Madison an assessing look. “Surely the Secretary of State has more pressing duties than altering the defense team of a former Vice President?”

“Richmond is a far closer to Montpelier than it is to New York. And the outcome is extremely important to the President.”

“I confess I’m rather disappointed he didn’t come himself. I wasn’t quite up to strength last I saw him. I’m far more capable of sparring now.”

“Yes, I see that.” A faint smile played at the edges of Madison’s lips, seemingly despite himself. “I am glad to see you so well, Mr. Hamilton.”

“Fighting fit,” Alexander agreed, sipping at his brandy again. His eyes fell on her, circling back to the table she’d started at, fast running out of surfaces to wipe. “Betsey, I think we’ll be all right here, if you’d like to see to the children.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, gaze locked on Madison.

“You’re not armed, are you, Jemmy?” Alexander asked lightly.

Madison paled as he looked back at her. “No. No, of course not.”

“There you have it. No danger.”

Reluctantly, she stepped out of the room and closed the door behind her. Leaving him alone felt wrong, frightening in a way she knew it ought not to be. Burr, at least, hadn’t been making regular appearances, though that felt like cold consolation. Even his name set her teeth on edge.

Alexander seemed amused by her self-appointed duty as his guard ever since they’d arrived in Richmond. “My faithful mongoose amongst the nest of vipers in which we now find ourselves,” he’d dubbed her after Burr had left that first day. She didn’t find it nearly so amusing.

Little Eliza was seated at table in the larger parlor across the hall. Leaving the door open, Eliza sat down across from her daughter. The little girl frowned down at the paper on which she’d been sketching.

“Is everything all right, my little dove?”

Her daughter looked up at her. “I can’t draw the bird right, Mama.”

Eliza twisted in her seat to see the caged parakeet Angelica insisted on towing about everywhere, then looked back at the paper. A blob sat on two-dimensional perch within an attempt at a cage, a stark triangular beak the only real hint that it was meant to depict a bird. Smiling, Eliza reached for a piece of drawing paper and took up an extra pencil. “Would you like me to show you some pointers?”

Little Eliza nodded, eyes alight with anticipation. “Yes, please.”

Eliza scooted her chair around so that she could better see the bird. The parakeet ruffled his green and yellow feathers and adjusted closer to the mirror in his cage, his long nails clicking on the wood perch. Tilting her head in consideration, she started with a circle, then attempted to capture the line of the creature’s back. Her daughter quickly turned over the page with the blob to copy her technique.

Eliza deliberately left off the cage.

They were on their way to a more faithful depiction of Angelica’s beloved pet when the parlor door across the way opened. Madison stepped out and bowed lightly upon seeing her. “Mrs. Hamilton.”

“Would you like me to see you out, Mr. Madison?” she offered.

“No, thank you.” Even so, he hesitated. After a pause, he said, “Dolley traveled with me.”

“How lovely for you. Traveling with a companion is always so much more pleasant.”

“Yes, it is. She was hoping you and your husband would join us for dinner some night while we’re both in town.”

“This wouldn’t be a clever ploy to distract my husband from his legal work, would it?”

Alexander rolled out of the parlor behind Madison. “Would you mind if it were?”

“Not especially,” Eliza granted.

Madison glanced between them, assessing, then conjured a wane smile. “Should I tell her to expect you?”

“Yes, of course. That would be lovely. Thank you, Jemmy,” Alexander said. “Though I think tomorrow would work better than tonight.”

“I shall look forward to it.” Nodding to them both once more, Madison saw himself out.

Alexander struggled to roll the rest of the way across the hall, grunting as the wheels of his chair stuck on the divider between the foyer and the parlor. She fought the urge stand and help him. He wanted so badly to reclaim his independence that he found assistance these days more bothersome than helpful if it could be avoided.

“Any further developments?” she asked when he managed to make it to the table.

“Nothing of great consequence. He wants me to give up the case. I refused. He finally gave up and left.” He shrugged a little, then winced.

“Do you need more salve for your back?”

“Maybe later,” he said with a sigh. “What are you ladies up to?”

“Mama’s helping me draw a bird,” little Eliza announced, shoving the paper over towards her father. The page crumpled a little under her fingers. “See?”

“Beautiful,” he praised.

She didn’t like the pinched look around his eyes. “I can get the salve now. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

“I’m fine,” he refused again.

“You’re in pain.” She would blame the traveling for the reemergence of his spasms, but the issue had started again before they’d left New York. Hosack had recommended the salve in place of Alexander taking any more laudanum.

“My darling mongoose,” he said, a fond smile quirking his lips. “I really am all right for now. I promise I’ll tell you if it’s getting too bad.”

He laughed at her skeptical look.

“I should get back to work, I suppose. Martin’s supposed to come by later to discuss strategy again. We think we can limit the prosecution to just the events on Blennerhassett Island. That should back Hay into a corner. He’ll be running himself in circles trying to prove Burr had anything to do with the events on the island after his departure.”

 “I don’t want you overworking yourself.” On Burr’s behalf especially, though she left that thought unspoken.

“I won’t,” he promised, leaning over to press a kiss to her check. His tone turned coy. “I have plans for tonight.”

She’d wondered when he turned Madison down for dinner. “What plans?”

He glanced at little Eliza, then leaned closer to whisper in her ear. “Well, they involve you, me, a bottle of wine, likely some candlelight, and a good deal of privacy.”

A grin stretched her cheeks, and she pecked him on the lips. “I love you.”

“I love you more.”

“I love you most,” she parried.

He laughed.

“Go,” she dismissed, swatting at him affectionately. “Go work. Be brilliant. If Mr. Madison can’t stop you, I certainly don’t have a prayer.”

“I disagree. You’re far more persuasive than Madison on his best days.” He kissed her again, more lingering this time. “But I do have work to do.”

She shook her head as she watched him retreat towards his makeshift office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 During the Whiskey Rebellion, Hamilton did try to build a case against Albert Gallatin, questioning witnesses specifically about his involvement. Gallatin was never charged, and he went on to be Thomas Jefferson’s Secretary of the Treasury. 
> 
> A little interlude before the trial begins. I was in the mood to write a Hamilton-Madison reunion, and it seemed like a good moment for Madison to come back into Hamilton's orbit. I also love writing Eliza acting as Ham's protector - there's something about how protective she was of him even after he was gone that really chokes me up. In fact, when their great-great grandson, Douglas Hamilton, gave a speech a few years ago at Trinity Church, he pointed out that the way their graves are set up, Eliza is lying in front of Hamilton, as though she's still protecting him to this day. (Ugh, these two!) 
> 
> The next chapter I have planned will be Ham's point of view and will cover some of the actual Burr trial.


	10. Hamilton, August 1807

**August 1807**

The words on Hamilton’s outline seemed to swim in the dim lamplight. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, vainly attempting to ease the dull headache between his temples. His back twinged with his movement, a now familiar throb in the base of his spine.

In the quiet of his office, he could hear Eliza humming in the next room. The sound drew closer, and, as he’d expected, he heard a perfunctory knock at the office door. Eliza admitted herself without waiting for his answer.

“Still working?” she asked, voice light and conversational as she dusted the spotless mantle. She’d taken to cleaning in here far more regularly than the room required; a way to stay close and keep an eye on him, he understood.

“Oral arguments for the motion to arrest the prosecution’s evidence are tomorrow morning,” he said. “I need to prepare.”

“I know, sweetheart,” she said. Her attention turned back to tidying the already perfectly tidy room, tacit permission for him to resume his work.

The argument had been mostly prepared for days, now, but he still labored over each phrase, rounding out each idea. He’d hardly spoken yet, his mere presence at the defense table enough to cause a stir without him speaking a word. He could feel the expectations for his eventual remarks mounting each day. Luther Martin had handled the opening argument and most of the cross examination of the witnesses, except where Burr had been unable to contain himself.

“How long did you work with Blennerhassett?” Burr had asked of Jacob Allbright on the second day of testimony, bouncing up out of his seat as soon as the George Hay had finished with the witness.

“Six weeks,” Allbright had answered evenly, eyes locked on the jury.

Burr moved around the table, approaching the witness box like a panther about to strike. “And at what time was it you saw me there?”

Allbright hesitated. His brow pinched together, and he looked to Hay nervously. The prosecutor sat back in his chair, frowning, but nodded him on. At last, Allbright answered, “I do not recollect.”

“The counsel for the United States know, I presume, this circumstance, and have testimony to ascertain it?” Burr pressed, smirking at the prosecutor now.

Hay’s expression was thunderous. “We do not, as far as I am informed.”

“If they have no objection, I will state when I was on the island.”1 A distinct smugness had entered Burr’s tone as he’d made the offer.

“We have no objection, Your Honor,” Hay had all but spit out.

“You may proceed, Mr. Burr,” Justice Marshall allowed.

“I was on Blennerhassett Island on the last day of August and the first day of September,” Burr reported to the jury before sauntering back to his seat.

Hamilton had watched the faces of the twelve men as Burr settled himself. Frowns of displeasure marked most of their faces. They hadn’t taken well to the performance.

“Don’t get cocky,” Hamilton had muttered, leaning towards Burr.

“I’m not,” Burr had replied, defensive.

“Juries don’t like smugness, and your life quite literally may depend on those twelve men’s favorable opinion of you.”

Burr had slid down somewhat in his seat, petulant as a child at Hamilton’s rebuke.

But where the jury were somewhat cool towards Burr, they were fascinated with Hamilton. He felt their eyes on him, scrutinizing his every movement and expression, waiting for him to address them. Hay had clearly noticed that phenomenon as well. When Hamilton had moved wrong during Commodore Truxton’s testimony on the first day, the twinge in his back making him wince, and Burr had touched a hand to his elbow in a gesture of concern, Hay had actually paused in his questioning to shout, “Objection!”

“You can’t object to your own questions, counselor,” Marshall had remarked dryly. An amused titter of laughter had risen from the journalists and spectators crammed in the back of the cramped Richmond district courtroom.

Hay’s cheeks had gone red. “I’m objecting to the stunt Mr. Burr is attempting with his counsel, Your Honor.”

“Stunt?” Marshall had asked.

“Mr. Burr touched Mr. Hamilton’s elbow when he winced.”

“Are you in pain, Mr. Hamilton?” Marshall had asked.

“I’m well, Your Honor.”

Marshall had given a put-upon sigh as he looked back at Hay. “Mr. Burr, please refrain from showing concern for Mr. Hamilton in front of the jury.”

“I shan’t even bless him if he sneezes, Your Honor,” Burr vowed.

The amused laughter had risen from the back of the room again.

Hamilton well understood Hay’s concern regarding the jury’s fascination with him. That breathless anticipation for his every word didn’t make his nerves any better. There was always a thrill to addressing a courtroom, a tingle of anticipation that built in his stomach like flapping butterfly wings, but the stakes tomorrow felt much higher.

Eliza resumed her humming as she picked up a stack of books to return to the shelf near his desk. Her hips swung subtly to the tune as she moved, he noticed, a fond smile starting on his lips. A pang went through his chest as he remembered all the times he’d stood with her on a dance floor, his hands resting on her hips, feeling her sway to violins. Seeming to sense his gaze on her, she looked back over her shoulder.

“What?” she asked coyly.

“I miss dancing with you,” he said.

“You can always dance with me, my love.”

He gave his legs a significant look.

She shook her head, shoved the last of the books onto the shelf, and sauntered over to him, tumbling into his lap. He let out a surprised puff of breath as he hastily reached out to embrace her. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders.

“Spin me,” she demanded, grinning.

With some slightly awkward maneuvering, he did manage to spin his chair in an approximation of a circle. It wasn’t anything like the way they used to dance, slow and graceful, anticipating each other’s movements, but with the weight of her body pressing against his torso, the warmth of her cheek on his, it seemed close enough. He laughed as he attempted to speed up their movement.

“That’s better,” she said, when his arms had grown too tired to keep wheeling them both around the office.

“What?”

“You’re smiling again. You were looking far too pensive when I first came in.”

“I’m nervous,” he admitted.

“You’re one of the best attorney’s in the country. You can’t help but do wonderfully. Whatever you say tomorrow, you’ll have every person in the room hanging on your every word.”

“That’s what’s concerning me. I understand Martin’s strategy to keep my remarks limited, that they might have the maximum impact when required, but it does create a heightened…expectation.”

“I’ll be right behind you,” she said. She’d staked out a seat directly behind the bar separating the well of the court from the public gallery on the first day, and no one had dared attempt to take it from her, despite the premium on space in the cramped courthouse. “There’s nothing you can say tomorrow that won’t make me proud.”

His smile brightened; the stress somehow dissipated by the reminder of her unwavering support. “Thank you, my angel.”

**

The courtroom was alive with chatter the next morning when Robert pushed his chair through the aisle towards the defense table. Necks craned as he moved past the crowds, eyes fixed on him. His stomach squirmed with nerves at the gawking. As he settled at the defense table, however, he felt a hand brush his shoulder. Looking around, he saw Eliza seated just behind him, as she’d promised she’d be last night. Jemmy was seated across the aisle in the same place, showing support for the prosecution, he noted.

“Go get him, sweetheart,” Eliza encouraged, her eyes moving towards Hay, who was rearranging papers at prosecution table.

He smiled.

A loud pounding proceeded the bailiff shouting in full voice, “Hear ye! Hear ye! All rise for the Honorable Chief Justice John Marshall. All those with business before this Honorable Court draw near, and you shall be heard.”

Marshall swept in through the rear door and sat on the bench, frowning in thought as his eyes swept over the briefs both sides had submitted. “The defense wishes to be heard on a motion?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Hamilton said.  

“The jury will please step out while the Court considers oral arguments by counsel.”

Scrapping chairs and general grumbling sounded from the jury box as the twelve men who had only just taken their seats were ushered back out of the room. The eyes of the room followed their progress back out the door to the jury room. When the door was safely shut, Marshall looked to the defense table.

Luther Martin rose. A titan in the courtroom in his own right, Martin had defended Justice Samuel Chase in the 1805 impeachment trial. Hamilton more than trusted him to make the more technical side of their motion with deft skill.

“The indictment against Mr. Burr limits the prosecution to only evidence of his actions on Blennerhassett Island. By Counsel’s own admission, they have nothing further to submit before this Court to that very narrow issue to which they have confined themselves,” Martin began.

An hour passed, Martin ably establishing why the Court had little choice but the grant the defense motion to arrest the prosecution from submitting further, irrelevant evidence. The basis in law was irrefutable, concrete, but Hamilton knew that it alone would do Burr little favor in the public eye. The prosecution’s poor draftsmanship in the indictment would end the treason trial surely enough, but it would be a technical victory; the pall of suspicion around the former Vice President would remain.

“If it please the Court, my co-counsel will now submit arguments on this matter.”

“Mr. Hamilton?” Marshall invited.

“Yes, Your Honor.” With a last look at Burr, he pushed at the wheels of his chair to back himself out of his seat at the table and rolled towards the center of the room. Clearing his throat, he recited, “Treason against the United States, shall consist only in levying war against them, or in adhering to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort. No person shall be convicted of treason unless on the testimony of two witnesses to the same overt act, or on confession in open court.

“Those are the words written in the Constitution. My learned colleagues for the United States have argued, and will, I’m sure, continue to argue, eloquently about the meaning of those words. If I may humbly submit, however, from personal experience, I know we who wrote the Constitution did not pull the definition from thin air or sudden divine inspiration. They were informed by the deep history of the law, stretching all the way back to the Statutes of Edward III.”

His nerves ease as he fell into arguments about precedent and legal meaning. Marshall nodded as he made his points, clearly agreeing with his thread of logic.

“There is a reason in law that we do not permit an accessory to a crime to be tried before a principal without a charge of conspiracy to make the underlying act their own. I would remind the Court that no single person from Blennerhassett Island at the time the prosecution alleges such treasonous actions to have been undertaken has been arrested, tried, or convicted of any offense. How then, could Mr. Burr be found guilty of treason for aiding or even inciting these activities? What crime has been committed? Were these men, in fact, levying war against the United States, as the Constitution requires? Why are they not here standing trial beside my client, then?

“And what, then, is the meaning of levying war? War is an appeal from reason to the sword; and he who makes the appeal evidences the fact by use of the means.2 The United States has failed to prove that Mr. Burr, or anyone for that matter, used those means.”

He maneuvered himself that he might address the greater room along with Marshall. “Many of you know that Mr. Burr and I have had…difficulties, in the past.” A swell of laughter rose from the onlookers at the carefully selected phrase. “I have no reason to make arguments on technicalities to set my client free. This isn’t a matter to be decided on clever legal maneuvering or moldy precedent. It is a matter of justice. Perhaps God spared my life for this purpose, to see the Constitution and all it’s promised protections preserved. We are Americans. We, like our fathers before us, fought and bled to see our liberties preserved, that we might not be bound by the dictates of a tyrant. There is no evidence against my client, save that which has come down from an office on high.”

Jemmy’s face darkened, and he fidgeted in his seat behind Hay, as though itching to make a retort. He’d caught the references to Jefferson, the allegations that he had abused his office by pronouncing Burr guilty before the trial had even begun. Marshall, however, appeared to take the argument seriously, his pen moving across the paper to make a note.

“I ask the Court to find in favor of the defense’s motion to arrest the prosecution of submitting yet more evidence which can only be called corroborative, at best. And if they have nothing more to add on the subject at hand, the jury must be left to their deliberations. God will justice be done.”

Marshall gave him a deliberate nod, and Hamilton felt tension in his chest ease.

“Mr. Hay? Have you a rebuttal?” Marshall invited.

Whatever arguments Hay might have devised, Hamilton felt certain that Marshall’s decision would fall in like the with the defense. The jury would be left to deliberate, and without further evidence by the prosecution, would be bound to find Burr not guilty. When he’d rolled back to his seat, Hamilton gave Burr a companionable nudge.

“I think congratulations will be due to you tomorrow, Mr. Burr,” Hamilton whispered, adjusting to ease another twinge in his back, sharper than the others had been.

(Little did he know in the moment, he wouldn’t be present to give Burr any such well wishes.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Testimony quoted from Burr’s cross examination of Jacob Allbright on August 19, 1807.  
> 2 Quote from Marshall’s opinion in United States v. Burr. 
> 
> Some fun courtroom dramatics in this chapter. I tried to pull as much as I could from the actual court records around Burr's trial - it was a thrilling affair, even without the added drama of Hamilton's presence. A lot of Hamilton's argument came from Marshall's opinion on the defense's motion to arrest the prosecution from submitting more evidence pertaining to acts by Burr in the months after the Blennerhassett Island incident. Marshall found in favor of the defense, and the jury ultimately did find Burr not guilty due to the prosecution failing to prove the crimes alleged in the indictment. Given Marshall's predilection for copying Hamilton, it only seemed fair to give Ham some of the good lines from that opinion.
> 
> If you're interested in reading more about the trial, check out UMKC School of Law's website, [Famous Trials](https://www.famous-trials.com/burr/168-testimony). They have a great collection of timelines, art, and transcripts of the testimony, arguments, and Marshall's opinion. 
> 
> Apologies for the ominous ending - but I've got to keep you all on the hook somehow :)


	11. Eliza, September 1807

**September 1807**

“What time is it?” Alexander asked.

“Just after noon,” Eliza answered.

“Word of the verdict should come soon,” Alexander muttered. The corner of his lips twitched up as he rolled his head on his pillow towards her. “There’s something almost poetic about the timing of this.”

“Hush,” Eliza said, fighting down her annoyance. “Don’t speak. Just rest.”

She paused in fanning his face to touch her fingertips to the cool cloth on his brow. The moisture had evaporated already in the sweltering summer heat. Gently removing the flannel from his forehead, she dipped it back into the basin, rung it out, and laid it back in place. He sighed in relief as she resumed fanning him.

Poetic was far from the word she would use to describe the past night; terrifying, heart wrenching, or nightmarish, perhaps, but not poetic.

That his back had been bothering him more lately had been clear to her for some weeks. The salve prescribed by Doctor Hosack helped, but he was still more careful with his movements, ginger as he adjusted himself. Even so, the pain hadn’t seemed to slow him down, preoccupied as he was with the trial.

That had all changed as soon his oral arguments had finished, as though his body had understood that there was a set date and time it must reach before collapsing. The pain had been far worse that evening, leaving him sweaty and ornery, and forcing him to retire far earlier than customary, especially after such a rousing success. He’d been uncomfortable for days during their recess while Marshall weighed the arguments. Then, in the middle of the night before the jury was set to deliberate, she’d woken to the sound of his hissed, measured breaths.

“What’s wrong?” she’d asked, voice still thick with sleep, as she’d pushed herself up onto an elbow.

“Back,” he’d managed to gasp out. “My back.”

She’d hurried to light a candle and fetch his salve. The strangled whimper that had escaped him when she’d rolled him to his stomach had cut straight to her core. “I’m sorry, honey,” she’d whispered. “We’ll get the salve on. It’ll be better in a minute.”

But the sight that awaited her when she’d lifted his nightshirt had dispelled any hope of such a simple remedy. Blood and pus intermingled in a coin-sized wound over his spine, and two more dark shadows were visible under his skin near the same spot. The skin around the area had been hot to the touch. Infection, she’d understood immediately.

A guttural sound of disgust had slipped out of her at the sight, causing him to twist around to try to look at her. He hissed with pain again and sank back into his pillows. “What is it?”

“I think you need a doctor, sweetheart.”

“Why? What,” he inhaled jaggedly, stuttering over his words, “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” she’d said.

She’d have given anything for the comforting presence of Doctor Hosack or Ned Stevens, but neither man was close enough to do her husband any good. Instead, she’d determined to send for Doctor William Foushee, an eminent physician she’d met along with Alexander at one of Dolley Madison’s recent parties. Foushee had commanded the attention of the entire room for near an hour before dinner as he related the salacious details of George Wythe’s murder, having been one of the doctors to attend to the revered elderly gentleman before he’d succumbed to the dose of poison administered by his own grandson, and to take the testimony of the servant, Lydia Broadnax, who’d narrowly survived a dose of the same poison herself.1 As Eliza waited for Foushee to arrive at their rented townhouse, she’d prayed that the coming events wouldn’t be added to the good Doctor’s repertoire of fascinating dinner conversation.

Foushee had been professional but gentle on his arrival. He’d immediately requested light, some towels, and hot water. He’d opened his black doctor’s bag with notable purpose.

“Do you know what’s wrong?” she’d asked.

“Yes. His body is expelling some bullet fragments. Entirely natural. One’s burst through already, as you saw, and those shadows there are two more pieces ready to come out. I’ll operate to pull them out and treat the wound.”

“Operate,” she repeated, fear shivering down her spine at the word. The memory of Alexander screaming, raw and terrible, in unbearable pain, swept over her again.  

“Nothing terribly invasive. They’re very close to the skin,” he’d assured her. Mildly, he added, “Perhaps you may want to fan him during the procedure, Mrs. Hamilton, to keep him comfortable.”

The benign suggestion had landed on her like a blow to the stomach, too reminiscent of that awful July day when she’d entered William Bayard’s home to find her husband wounded and bleeding, on the very edge of death. She’d bent double on the bed, tears pricking at her eyes and panic constricting her chest.

She couldn’t breathe.

“Mrs. Hamilton?” Foushee had asked, concerned.

“I’m right here, Betsey. Everything’s all right,” Alexander had said, voice breathy but calm. The words ‘You are a Christian, my Eliza’2 fluttered through her memory, but he did her the favor of not repeating them. With a note of forced confidence, he simply repeated “I’m all right” until her lungs remembered how to inflate again.

She’d swallowed, nodding finally, before leaning over to kiss him.

Foushee had dosed him with laudanum. That drugged, hazy look to Alexander’s eyes had returned, another painful reminder of those early days after his injury.  Even so, he’d had to bite on a piece of cloth to keep from screaming as the doctor sliced into his back to remove the lingering bullet fragments. The metal fragments clattered against the porcelain bowl on the beside table, small and innocuous.

The worst part was, Foushee couldn’t guarantee that it wouldn’t happen again. “The bullet likely broke into many pieces upon impact,” he’d explained, as she’d stroked Alexander’s hair while he laid unconscious from the pain and drugs. “It’s hard to say how many of those pieces are left in him, or if or when the body will force them out.”  

Alexander had been sleeping on and off ever since.

He seemed to be rousing, now, though, the aftereffects of the laudanum wearing off at last. He was drowsy but coherent as he blinked slowly at her, taking her in. He asked softly, “Are you all right, my darling?”

“You’re asking me? You’re the one drugged and bleeding,” she said, continuing to fan him.

“I know. But you seemed very frightened last night.”

“I was,” she admitted. “I was terribly frightened. I can’t lose you, Alexander. I don’t think I’d survive it.”

“You would,” he said, certain.

“I don’t want to survive it, then.”

He slid his fingers between hers, pressing their palms together. “That’s fair enough, I suppose. I’ll endeavor to spare you from having to for as long as I can.”

“How’s your pain?” she asked, squeezing his hand gently.

“Manageable.”

“Do you want more laudanum? To help you sleep?”

He sighed, considering for a long moment. “Yes please.”

Preparing the dropper felt all too familiar.  

**

“What do you want?” Eliza asked, standing in the foyer some hours later face to face with none other than Aaron Burr. She meant to sound angry but worry and lack of sleep left her sounding more exhausted than anything.

She’d been plagued by nightmares during the few hours of sleep she’d claimed that morning. In them, Burr snuck into their bedroom through the window, leveled a pistol over Alexander, and shot at point blank range. She could still see his shadowy shape in the darkness, his cruel smile just visible as he tore away the most important person in her life.

The man before her bore little resemblance to the specter in the darkness that haunted her sleep, though. Burr shifted his weight before her, somewhat awkward, a bouquet of yellow roses hanging in his hand. “The verdict came down today. And I heard about what happened last night. I wanted to come express both my thanks and my sympathies to your husband. May I see him?”

She fixed him with a hard look. “You heard what happened? All of it?”

“Only that he was taken ill in the night, and Doctor Foushee was summoned to attend him. Is it serious?”

“Bullet fragments surfaced in his back. He’s feverish, fighting an infection. Doctor Foushee operated to remove the fragments that had not already burst through the skin.”

Burr’s eyes widened fractionally. “Has this happened before?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You ought to be.”  

“I am. I…I don’t know how best to express to you my sincere regret for my actions that day. I never meant to hurt him, not truly. And I certainly never meant to hurt you.”

“But you did, Mr. Burr. More deeply and thoroughly than if you had stabbed me through the heart. My own death would have been preferable to watching his suffering, his pain.”

“I know. I understand.”

He did, she knew. He’d watched his own wife sicken and die; she could still remember the pale shadow of himself he’d become in the days after Theodosia’s passing. “That you know that kind of awful grief, and still thoughtlessly would have inflicted it upon me, is hardly going to soften my heart.”

“I know.” His head hung down for a long moment. “I owe your husband my life. My very life. Without his arguments in my favor, I would be preparing to flee to Europe now, alone and friendless in the country I was once prepared to give my life to protect. I do not ask your forgiveness, madam, but know that I feel the weight of my actions and my foolish pride.”

That was something, she supposed. She couldn’t give him her forgiveness (wasn’t sure she ever could), but she nonetheless beckoned him inside and down the hall towards the back bedroom. Burr stopped in the doorway behind her, his breath catching at the scene within.

The medical equipment, the bandages wound around her husband’s torso, the hot, stale air of the sickroom, all echoed the bloody scene of three years earlier. For all Burr claimed to feel the weight of his actions on his conscience, he hadn’t borne witness to the aftermath. He’d never had to hear Alexander’s screams. She hoped witnessing this scene might give him a taste of the pain and misery he had inflicted upon her family.

“Sweetheart,” she whispered, seating herself on the bed beside her husband and leaning over to kiss his forehead. “Mr. Burr is here to see you.”

“Burr?” His voice was blurry, thick with sleep, but he made to push himself up and winced, hissing.

“Stay still,” she urged, her hands on his chest. “He’ll come to you.”

Burr inched closer that he might fall into Alexander’s line of sight.

“No armed escorts that I can see,” Alexander noted. “That’s a positive sign.”

“The jury came back in less than an hour. Not guilty.”3

“Just so.” His eyes were drooping again, but he smiled, satisfied with the news.

“The laudanum,” she explained to Burr. “It makes him drowsy.”

“I’ll leave you to your rest, Mr. Hamilton. I only wanted to express my sincere gratitude for all your assistance and my hope for your recovery.” He stepped closer, leaving the yellow roses on the side table amongst the bottles, basins, and bandages. With a moment’s hesitation, he reached out and gripped Alexander’s shoulder.

“I’ll see you in New York, Mr. Burr?”

“You will,” Burr said. “Perhaps we might try a case together again, for old time’s sake. We do make quite a team.”

Alexander laughed softly. “I’d like that.”  

 “Be well, Alexander.” His gaze flickered towards her. “Please let me know if there’s anything I can do. Anything.”

“Good day, Mr. Burr,” she said, dismissing him without quite answering.

He nodded, retreating under her stare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 George Wythe’s murder is kind of a fascinating true crime story and would have still been the talk of the town at this time in Richmond. Wythe taught law to several famous American figures, including Thomas Jefferson, John Marshall, and Henry Clay. He died in 1806 of what appeared to be arsenic poisoning administered by his own grandson. “I Am Murdered: George Wythe, Thomas Jefferson, and the Killing that Shocked a New Nation” by Bruce Chadwick is a worthwhile read if you’re interested in learning more. 
> 
> 2 “You are a Christian, my Eliza” is, of course, the phrase Hamilton used on his deathbed to attempt to calm Eliza when she was panicking upon finding he’d been mortally injured. 
> 
> 3 Burr’s actual verdict was far from a straightforward “Not Guilty.” When delivering the verdict, the foreman of the Jury, Colonel Carrington, read: "We of the jury say that Aaron Burr is not proved to be guilty under this indictment by any evidence submitted to us. We therefore find him not guilty." Burr immediately objected, as the statement was irregular (the jury is supposed to say only “not guilty” and nothing more). By adding to the statement, the jury made clear that they had found only that the prosecution had failed to carry it’s burden, not that they believed Burr was, in fact, innocent of the charges. 
> 
> Bullet fragments resurfacing years later is a problem that can afflict survivors of gunshot wounds, but I also thought it was kind of symbolically interesting as things between Hamilton and Burr thaw. Poor Eliza though, all that trauma she had to endure due to Burr’s actions. I don’t blame her at all for never forgiving him. Of course, in real life, he never exactly showed much remorse (at least not outwardly). 
> 
> Next up, some more exploration of the politics of the early 19th century – a war is on the horizon.


	12. James, October 1809

**October 1809**

“Morning Geli!” James called, mounting the steps of the Grange. His sister was sitting on the front porch in the autumn sunshine with an easel set before her. “Have you missed me?”

She gave him a distant look as he leaned in to give her a kiss on the cheek.

“What are you painting?”

Her gaze fell back on the easel. He glanced at it, too, taking in the blurry shapes that didn’t seem to form any understandable image. She didn’t offer any explanation, not that he’d expected her to when she was so clearly in the grips of one of her distant, closed off moods.

“Love you,” he said, patting her arm affectionately before letting himself into the house.

His father’s bust stared back at him from across the foyer. He hung his hat on the stand and looked to his left to find the door to his father’s study partly ajar. Phil was in there with him, babbling on about something from the sound of it.

“And then Mr. Harris told me to add them together, but I told him no, because you showed me how to do it already, and you’re the best at math in the whole country,” Phil said from his seat on Papa’s lap.

Papa laughed. “Well, flattering as that may be, Son, I think you ought to hear your tutor out. It’s possible he was teaching you a different way to come to the same answer.”

“I don’t want to do it a different way. I want to do it the right way.”

“And my way is the right way?”

“Yes,” Phil said earnestly.

Papa laughed again and kissed Phil’s forehead. “And don’t you forget it.”

James knocked on the door and poked his head inside. “Hi Papa.”

Papa’s expression turned grave the moment he saw him. “Phil, why don’t you go find Billy? Tell him I said it was all right to go down to the river. You can take your new fishing pole along.”

“All right, Papa,” Phil agreed, sliding off his lap. As he moved towards James, he whispered, “You’re in big trouble.”

“Phil,” Papa said, voice holding a warning.

The boy scurried out of the room.

“Close the door, James,” Papa directed.

A sense of foreboding swept over him as he shut himself into his father’s office. He’d been away in Waterford for the past several months, tending to the property his mother had finally been awarded from Grandpa Schuyler’s estate and setting up his first legal practice. He was at a loss as to what had happened in his absence to cause his father’s apparent displeasure.

Papa was looking at him over the top of his spectacles, as though taking measure of him. When Papa finally spoke, it was with an air of forced casualness. “Did you have a safe ride down?”

“Yes,” he answered. He fought not to fidget as he stood straight, pinned by his father’s gaze.

“Any news you’d like to share with me?”

His mind went utterly blank. On the way home, he’d been bursting with subjects to discuss with his father: politics, legal issues, needed business advice. They all evaporated at the expression of grave disappointment on his father’s face. “No?”

 “Nothing at all?”

He shook his head and shifted his weight to his other foot.

“Hm.” Papa reached down into his desk and pulled out a broadsheet. “That’s odd, because I read the most curious thing in the newspaper from Saratoga county recently.”

“You read the newspaper from Saratoga county?”

“Not usually. Mr. Ten Broeck sent it to me for my attention to this particular item.” He tapped his finger over the leftmost column.

James approached slowly, squinting down at the small print where his father had gestured. John Cramer’s name stood out in the blur of words, and his stomach dropped down into his shoes. “Oh.”

“Oh, indeed,” Papa said. “What on earth were you thinking?”

“I….” He hesitated. “It wasn’t…I didn’t mean to… I wasn’t even there when it started.” He could see Papa’s jaw tensing as he stumbled through his explanation.

The thing was, he hadn’t even wanted to make the stupid speech in the first place. When the Federalist’s had invited him to speak, he’d known immediately it wasn’t him they wanted to hear from, but his father. The older he grew, and the more of politics he’d come to understand, the more he could feel his views departing from his father’s, but he could hardly speak his mind in front of a room of his father’s loyal supporters. And so, he hadn’t. The result had been an admittedly rather bland speech, toeing the party line and praising his father in as many ways as he could think of.

The trouble had started after he’d left. A meeting of Democrats had followed the Federal gathering, and a man by the name of John Cramer had immediately jumped up to report everything James had said. His commentary hadn’t exactly been flattering. A good deal of insult had been leveled against his father, adding to the insult.

Captain Ten Broeck had stood after Cramer was done and challenged him to a duel in James’s name. The good Captain had insisted that if James refused to hold the man accountable for his words, he would fight Cramer himself. “He won’t do it,” Cramer had sneered in reply.1

“Captain Ten Broeck was the one who challenged him in my name, but I felt duty bound to send a written challenge after he reported what happened. Cramer insulted me, and you. What was I supposed to do?”

Papa’s face paled as James explained. “Not that. Not a duel.”

“He refused anyway. That newspaper report is regarding his cowardly refusal to face me. We never came close to actually fighting.”

“Have you learned nothing from the heartache of the past years?” Papa’s voice rose uncharacteristically, his nostrils flaring in anger.

James shifted back a step, startled. “I’m sorry.”

“I can’t go through that again, Jamie. I can’t. If I lost you, like that, in such a foolhardy, pointless exercise….” Papa’s hands slipped under his glasses, his fingers pressing at his eyes. “It would kill me, Jamie.”

In retrospect, he had seen that his behavior had followed the same course as Pip’s and Papa’s. Only dumb luck had prevented his meeting the same fate. Indignation had burned through him at Cramer’s insult, but the exchange had certainly not been worth his life. Pip and Papa’s sacrifices ought to have served as better examples to him.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, more softly. “It was foolish. I know that.”

“I can’t understand why you were there in the first place. You should be focused on establishing your practice, not making political speeches. Keep yourself out of politics altogether, at least until your settled.”

“It’s not that simple,” James argued. “Even going to court nowadays feels like a political exercise. Do you know, when Martin Van Buren won in Judge Van Ness’s court, the Judge asked Williams how he could have let that ‘little Democrat’ beat him? And Williams replied, ‘Oh, Judge, I relied upon you to supply my deficiencies.’ Making the right political connections feels like the only way I’m ever going to win a case in court.”2

“These are particularly divisive times, but the way to combat such corruption in our judicial system is surely not to engage in it. And spilling each other’s blood is hardly going to help either.”

“Easy for you to say. You have clients lining up down the street for your legal services. When you lose to Democratic judges, no one doubts your skill as an attorney. I’m only just starting. I need to prove myself.”

“You need to stay alive,” Papa snapped. “There are other careers you can undertake. You only get one life.”

James swallowed.

Papa’s voice turned pleading as he said, “Promise me you won’t ever do that again.”

“I promise,” he vowed.

As he considered what else to say, a knock came on the office door. Little Eliza’s face peeped in through the crack she’d opened. “Papa? People are here.”

“Is it Mama?” Papa asked, frowning lightly.

“No.” She leaned back out and squinted at the glass panes beside the front door. “I think it’s Mr. Morris and some other people.”

“Oh,” Papa said, seizing the wheels of his chair and maneuvering out from behind the desk. “Thank you, sweetheart. I’ll let them in.”

He stopped in front of James before he passed and gestured for him to lean down. “Come here.”

James obeyed, letting his father wrap him in a loose hug.

“I love you,” Papa said.

“I love you, too,” James replied.

With that, Papa rolled out to answer the door.

“Big news, Ham, big news,” Gouverneur Morris announced, almost before the front door was even open.

James looked down the stairs as his father’s friend barreled through the foyer towards the parlor. An elderly gentleman was slowly making his way up towards the house as well, leaning heavily on a cane and the young lady accompanying him.

“Richard Morris,” his father supplied for him before heading towards the parlor. James felt his eyes widen at the name – Richard Morris had been the Chief Justice of the New York Supreme Court for over a decade before his retirement. “He’s visiting Morrisania. Show him into the parlor when he makes it in, will you?”

“Yes, Papa,” he agreed.

Geli apparently had gone inside while he’d been in Papa’s office, he noted absently, her easel and paints abandoned in place.

As he watched their company’s progress from the top of the steps, he found his eyes resting far more on the young lady than on the venerated old Judge. She wore a power blue dress cut in the new style popularized by Mrs. Madison, with ivory lace detailing at the bodice, and a blue satin sash decorating the high waistline. Her hair was dark and curled into delicate little ringlets that framed her face.

She was beautiful.

“James Hamilton,” he introduced himself when they’d made it up the stairs. “A pleasure to meet you, Judge Morris.”

“Yes, yes, hello,” the Judge replied breathlessly. He coughed weakly, then seemed to notice James’ attention had fixed on the young woman at his side. “My granddaughter, Mary.”

She stretched her free hand out for him to kiss. “How do you do, Mr. Hamilton?”

He took her hand and bowed. “Very well, Miss Morris. And yourself?”

“Enjoying this lovely autumn day. Isn’t the weather beautiful, grandfather?”

“Yes, yes,” he repeated, still catching his breath.

Mary looked at James expectantly. For the second time that day, his mind felt utterly blank. He could feel the skin of his cheeks stretching as he grinned at her like an idiot.

“Is there somewhere I could sit down, young man?” Judge Morris injected into the slightly awkward silence.

“Oh, yes. Papa’s gone into the parlor with Mr. Morris. Right through here.” He showed them into the room.

“Please have a seat, Judge,” Papa invited.

“Let me get you a chair, Miss Morris,” James said, scrambling to move one of the seats from the table in the center of the room.

“I can move it,” Mary said.

“No, no, allow me,” he insisted.

In his haste to move the chair, he slammed the solid wooden leg into his shin, and had to bite back the swear that fought to escape with the sudden flash of pain.

“Are you all right?” Mary asked.

“Fine,” he said, voice tight. “Just fine. Here you are Miss.”

“Thank you?” She said it as question, as though she wasn’t quite sure what to make of his slightly desperate attempt at chivalry.

He nodded, grinning like an idiot again. What was the matter with him?

“James?” Papa asked, staring at him with a curiously fond expression.

“Yes?”

“Would you like to sit down and join us?” Papa nodded to the three other free chairs around the table.

Yes, sitting down would be far less awkward than standing at Mary’s side, grinning down at her. “Yes. Thank you.”

He placed his chair beside his father and sat down as Mr. Morris began speaking again. Papa patted at his arm and leaned over towards him while Mr. Morris addressed the Judge. “Relax,” Papa advised, sotto voce. “You’re doing fine.”

He raised his eyebrows encouragingly before turning his attention back to Mr. Morris.

James snuck a glance across the room at Mary, who he found was watching him in turn, with her head tilted slightly to the side and a subtle quirk to her lips.

Beautiful, he decided again. Simply beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. James really did nearly get into a duel with John Cramer in 1809, shortly after he'd been admitted to the bar. His written challenge to Cramer was refused, resulting in Cramer being reported as a coward in the newspapers. When recounting the story in his autobiography, he described the encounter as "an act of folly, and perhaps wickedness." (pp.40-41). That James nearly got himself into the same situation that killed his brother and father seems completely insane, and had Hamilton been alive at the time, I'm sure he would have been horrified at the idea.  
> 2\. The encounter between Van Ness and Williams regarding Martin Van Buren comes from James Hamilton's autobiography, p.42. 
> 
> I really love writing for the Hamilton kids! It was especially fun writing the first interaction between James and Mary. The two were married on October 17, 1810, and they went on to have 5 children together.


	13. Hamilton, June 1812

**June 1812**

Excited voices from the front of the house signaled the arrival of James and Mary.

Eliza had been rushing around all morning preparing for them and adding the finishing touches to the little dress she’d sewn for their first little granddaughter. She’d held it up to Hamilton with such joy glowing on her face, sighing as asked rhetorically, “Isn’t it just darling?” Hamilton had felt the stirring of excitement himself most of the morning, elated at the chance to spend the day with the newest little Betsey in the family.  

They’d had a wonderful morning, right up until the official looking messenger had been ushered through the door bearing a letter addressed to “General A. Hamilton.” His stomach had dropped to the floor as he’d accepted the paper, the single page somehow heavy as a bolder in his hands. He knew exactly what the letter contained before he’d cracked open the heavy seal on the back.

War.

“What is it?” Eliza had asked, half-distracted as she ran a cloth over his bust in the foyer.

“Nothing,” he’d assured her with a somewhat queasy smile.  

Any other day, she’d have seen through his pitiful facade for deception and pressed him further. Thankfully, she’d taken him at face value, returning to her cleaning, a wide smile stretching her cheeks all the while. He’d had no desire to ruin the day.

He adjusted his chair to better reach into the closet, running his hand over the rich blue uniform jacket hanging inside. He’d have to have it cleaned, he supposed. Good thing he hadn’t disposed of it entirely. Until a few months ago, he’d never expected to wear it again.

“Sweetheart?” Eliza poked her head into the bedroom doorway. “They’re here.”

He released the sleeve of his uniform and followed her from the bedroom.

“Look who I found on the road,” James said as they both entered the parlor, his thumb jutting towards the lanky young man beside him.

“Johnny! What a lovely surprise. I didn’t think you’d be home until after exams,” Eliza said, holding her arms out.

Johnny embraced her. “I was hoping to get Papa’s help with some of the trickier points of property law. My professor isn’t very good at explaining it.”

Hamilton examined his sons as Johnny pulled away from his mother. Twenty now, Johnny still had the skinny arms and peach fuzz of a teenager. James was the bulkier of the two, hale and hardy. He pictured them both wearing blue and buff uniforms, saw them covered with dust from the march, pictured British redcoats charging towards them with bayonets.

“I’m sure Papa will be happy to help you,” Eliza said. “Right, sweetheart?”

“Hm?” He blinked, forcing himself out of the nightmarish daydream back to their conversation. “Oh, yes. Of course.”

Eliza frowned at him.

He forced his mouth to curl upwards in a smile, trying to allay her concern.

Alex was already in the military—he’d run off to Europe to help fight off Napoleon last year, young and eager for adventures of his own. The worry for one son was bad enough. To think of three of his older boys in peril….

He felt sick.

Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face, because James and Johnny were suddenly studying him closely.

“Are you all right, Papa?” James asked, head tilting to the side.

“Fine,” he said. “Just fine.”

Childish babbling in the foyer saved him from further scrutiny by his children.

“Here she is, with a clean nappy and all,” Mary announced in a sing-song voice as she entered the room, bouncing a little girl with dark curls on her hip. “Come say hello, little miss. Let’s tell Grandma and Grandpa how much we’ve missed them, shall we?”

Eliza cooed as she surged forward, scooping the little girl into her arms. “Grandma missed you. Yes, she did. Yes, she did.”

The girl laughed as she was bounced in Eliza’s arms.

After several wet kisses to young Betsey’s little chubby cheek, Eliza glanced back and gave him a considering look. “Let’s give Grandpa a turn, dearest. Maybe you can cheer him up out of his sullen mood.”

“I’m not sullen,” he argued, even as he held out his arms to take his granddaughter.

Eliza’s brow rose in disbelief. “If you say so, my love.”

His stomach turned with anxiety as he cuddled his granddaughter to him, inhaling the sweet scent of her curls.

**

“Alexander?” Eliza’s voice held a note of frustration that indicated it hadn’t been the first time she’d called his name.

He’d had his eyes trained on his uniform again, distracted as he prepared for bed, his stocking rolled halfway down his calf. Craning his head around, he apologized, “Sorry, my angel. What were you saying?”

She was seated at her vanity, already dressed in her nightgown with her hair braided neatly down her back.

“What’s gotten into you today?” She was scrutinizing him with that distinct, concerned furrow of her brow. “You’re not feeling ill, are you?”

“No.”

“Well, something’s wrong. You’ve been miles away all day long.” He could see her sorting through her memories of the day. “Was it that messenger who came by the house this morning? Did you get bad news?”

He sighed. “Of a sort. I didn’t want to worry you with it when little Betsey was visiting.”  

“Well, you failed spectacularly at that already. You might as well let me in on it. What’s happened?”

“I’m not sure. Not completely, at least. But I suspect…” He trailed off, trying to think how best to raise the subject. “The letter was from President Madison. He wants me to come to Washington.”

“To Washington?” she repeated, leaning forward a little. “Whatever for?”

He swallowed. “I think we’re going to war with Britain again.”

All the color leached from her face. “That can’t be.”

“I’m surprised it’s taken this long, to be honest. After that miserable business with the U.S.S. Chesapeake in Virginia, I thought for sure Jefferson would give in to his anti-British inclinations. The impressment of Americans hasn’t eased since, either. And after the incident at Tippecanoe out in Indiana…well, the Westerners have been pressing hard for decisive action to stop the British from riling up the Native populations.”

Eliza shook her head. “But I don’t understand what any of that has to do with you. Why does Madison want you to travel all the way to Washington?”

“I’m the highest-ranking military officer in the country, Betsey. Washington’s chosen successor.”

Her eyes flicked to his wheelchair, then back to his face, disbelief coloring her expression. “Madison can’t expect you to fight.”

“I heard rumors that he’s worried I might challenge him in the upcoming election as the Federalist candidate instead of King. Offering me a military command works perfectly for his political purposes. I can’t turn it down without hurting my political standing, and if I’m waging a war on his behalf, I won’t have time to gather support for a presidential run.”

“You’re not running for president.”

“And yet somehow I can never quite convince the Demos of that.”

“Can’t you explain it to him? Face to face?”

He raised his shoulders helplessly. “It’s never helped before.”

“You can’t mean to accept command, Alexander.”

“Who else, if not me? We have a choice between ancient Generals from the Revolutionary days or young men who are completely untested. Who do you want leading our army? Leading our boys?”

Her eyes closed. “Our boys.”

“You know James and Johnny will jump at the chance for military glory.”

“James was just married. He’s just had a little girl. And Johnny is hardly more than a boy. He’s still in school.”

“None of that will matter, Betsey. You know it won’t. I joined up at nineteen, and nothing in the world would have kept me from the thrill of adventure. Not even you, not even Pip, stopped me from marching to Yorktown. Young men are drawn to military conflict like moths to a flame.”

 She pressed a hand to her brow, like she was fighting a sudden headache. Her eyes were damp when she finally looked back at him. “I can’t do this again.”

“I don’t want to do it either. But I don’t think I’m going to have much choice.”

She stood and crossed the room to him, her arms sliding over his shoulders as she curled up in his lap. He hugged her close. The weight of her in his arms was comforting.

With his nose pressed into her hair, he asked, “Will you come with me to Washington? I have a feeling I’ll be in need of my trusty mongoose.”

The teasing nickname earned him a weak, watery chuckle. “Of course, I’ll come with you, honey. Whatever comes, we’ll face it together, as we always have.”

Her agreement made the knot of anxiety in his middle ease ever so slightly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry I've taken so long to update! Just a quick little chapter to set up the transition into the War of 1812. 
> 
> I was reading recently about how Steven Van Rennselaer (Peggy's husband) ended up being appointed to command of one of the three armies that marched on Canada in the summer of 1812. He'd been considering a run for Governor as a Federalist, and Madison hoped to avoid his candidacy by placing him in command. I struck me that, had Hamilton been around, and possibly a threat to Madison's own power, he easily may have placed Hamilton into a military position to avoid any political upset. And with Hamilton being Washington's chosen successor, Madison would have had a hard time keeping Hamilton entirely out of events had he lived into the 1810s. 
> 
> Next, on to Washington!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! I promise I plan to update this one more regularly going forward!!


	14. Eliza, July 1812

**July 1812**

“I feel indecent,” Eliza complained, frowning at her reflection in the mirror.

Alexander was on the other side of their bedroom, and he answered distantly in a manner that suggested he was only half listening as he finished dressing himself. “Your gloves are long. You’ll be more covered once you add them.”

“My arms aren’t what I’m concerned about,” she parried.

The new dress was cut in the latest fashion, a rich blue satin fabric with a high waist and capped sleeves designed to fit in amongst the finery of Mrs. Madison’s Wednesday night drawing room at the Executive Mansion. Mrs. Madison had apparently done away with the traditional kerchief that hid ladies’ collarbones, shoulders, and cleavage. Combined with the high waist, the overall result was to put each woman’s breasts on ample display, it seemed to Eliza.

“You look ravishing.” He still wasn’t looking at her.

“Look at this,” she said, turning for him to see and gesturing to her bosom. “It’s not right. I’m a grandmother.”

He finished affixing the diamond studded medal from the Society of the Cincinnati to his chest, the same that Martha Washington had sent him after the General’s death, and finally looked up at her. A lascivious smile slowly crept up at the corners of his mouth. “Well, I don’t see a thing wrong.”

“That look in your eyes says you see exactly what’s wrong. How can I go out like this, at my age?”

“You’re the most attractive grandmother I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

She blushed a little, feeling a combination of flattered and ridiculous as she shook her head at him. He looked dashing as ever in his crisp General’s uniform, of course, his gold braid and brass buttons gleaming. Even with his gray hair and deep-set laugh lines around his eyes and mouth, he was as handsome as the day they’d met.

Moving to the bureau, she pulled on her long white gloves and affixed the bracelet she’d selected for the occasion over her wrist. The last touch was the tall feathered headpiece, a familiar fashion that had been all the rage in her younger days.

“You look beautiful,” he said, his eyes raking over her figure appreciatively.

“Thank you,” she sighed, even as she tugged the dress up again, still uncomfortable. “Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

Resignation overwrote the flirtation in his expression. She clasped at the handles of his chair, one hand reaching out to rub his shoulder consolingly, and pushed him out into the front room of their Washington boarding house. After Robert assisted Alexander into the coach, they set off the short distance to the Executive Mansion.

The entryway was crowded with people, so many Eliza didn’t quite understand how they’d all fit inside. The nickname “Wednesday Night Squeeze” made sudden sense. Pushing Alexander inside, she felt like she’d stepped through a wall of heat.

A dazzling spectacle of light and noise greeted them. Music floated through the rooms. People were talking and laughing in tight circles in the bright lamplight, touches neoclassical furnishings and fine fabrics far as the eye could see. Men in fine suits and military uniforms mingled amongst ladies in dresses of every color, jewels sparkling on their headdresses and turbans.

In the center of the spectacle stood James and Dolley Madison; James in his customary black, a tight expression on his bloodless face that was reminiscent of someone undergoing light torture, and Dolley in a rose pink gown with cheeks to match and customary turban in place, looking utterly at ease.

“Well, we’re certainly in the vipers’ nest now,” Alexander remarked, sotto voce, as she tried to maneuver him through the press of the crowd.

“General Hamilton!” Dolley spotted them immediately, and rushed towards them, Madison being pulled in tow. “And Mrs. Hamilton. What a pleasure!”

Dolley leaned down to embrace Alexander, kissing him on each cheek, then came around to do the same to Eliza, kissing her as though they’d been friends for years. They had been friendly in their few months of acquaintance before Alexander had resigned from the Treasury, but certainly nothing to this level. And she was fairly certain Alexander and Dolley had never even met.

Pasting on a bright smile, Eliza said dutifully, “Thank you for the invitation, Mrs. Madison.”

“Of course, honey, of course. I know you and the General are still getting settled here in the capital, and I thought, what better chance will you have to meet every one of consequence in one place? All those introductions can be so tedious. As you can see, I make it a point to invite everyone to these “squeezes,” as they call them. Fighting belongs in the field, I say, not in my drawing room.”

 “I’m sure I’ll be paying plenty of calls, nonetheless. I didn’t miss this part of public life,” Eliza confided. “How’s Payne?”

“Just marvelous.”

Dolley was inquiring after their children when Alexander seemed to lose patience with Madison, who was still standing where Dolley had left him some paces away.

“No kiss from you, Jemmy?” Alexander teased.

Dolley burst out laughing, her hand tapping Alexander’s shoulder affectionately.

A little smile formed on Madison’s lips as he came closer and reached out a hand. “Thank you for attending, General. I think we’ll have a lot to discuss in the coming days.”

“I believe that’s an understatement.” A serious note had entered Alexander’s voice.

Dolley held a finger out to her husband. “Uh uh, no business tonight. This is a time for socializing.”  

“Of course, my dear,” Madison said dutifully.

“Mr. President,” a young man greeted as he paused beside Madison, bowing formally. He was impeccably dressed in a fine, dark suit, with penetrating eyes and long sideburns despite his slightly receding hairline.

“Mr. Clay,” Madison responded, nodding his head in acknowledgement. “I don’t believe you’ve met General Hamilton?”

“We haven’t had the pleasure,” Clay agreed, thrusting his hand out towards Alexander. “Henry Clay. Speaker of the House.”

Alexander hesitated a beat before shaking Clay’s hand.

“We’ll be glad to have your input, General, though I’m not sure we’ll need it. Word arrived today that General Hull reached Detroit at the beginning of the month. I’d lay odds the damned Red Coats are on the run as we speak.”

“You think victory will come that easily?”

Clay grinned boyishly. “We whipped ‘em once, didn’t we?”  

“Yes, we did,” Alexander said, voice tight, with a particular emphasis on “we”, as if to remind Clay that he had been little more than a child during the last conflict. “But it wasn’t exactly easy.”

“Well, we’ve grown as a nation since then.”

“We have no standing army. Only the same untested militia we had at the beginning of the revolution, and very few leaders left to us from that conflict.”

 Clay carried on as if he hadn’t heard Alexander. “And the Canadian’s aren’t any more enthralled to the British then we were. As Mr. Jefferson said, taking Canada will be a mere matter of marching.”

Alexander’s displeased hum bespoke disagreement.  

“Oh, don’t tell me you agree with those traitors, who’d see us cowering in the face of insult after insult? You ought to understand the importance of national honor.” Clay’s eyes flickered to Alexander’s chair.

“I can’t say I’m thrilled at the prospect of another war. And those who express reservations are hardly traitors. Honestly, I’d expected you to use more care with your language after the news of what happened in Baltimore.”

Eliza winced and laid a hand on her husband’s shoulder, even as she gave Dolley an apologetic side-glance. Dolley patted at her arm in a gesture of understanding.

The story of the Democratic mob overtaking Alexander Hanson in his jail cell and beating him to within an inch of his life had hit Alexander hard. Hanson edited the “Federal Republican” in Baltimore and had run an editorial earlier questioning the wisdom of war with England. The incensed mob had killed two of his Federalist companions and inflicted grave wounds to Harry Lee’s head in the mayhem. Alexander had thrown the paper across the room, sick at the news, and demanded, “Why should I help these people?”

 “Not standing beside your countrymen in a time of war sounds like treason to me.”

“What exactly is the point of a free press if expressing very reasonable concerns about the disruption and destruction of war is grounds for execution?” Alexanders’ voice was rising in pitch now.

“Honey,” Eliza whispered.

“It’s not as if the government is the one who carried out the executions,” Clay parried. “It hardly bears on the first amendment, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“Hardly bears…” Alexander’s jaw was working, a red flush coming over his cheeks that Eliza suspected had little to do with the warmth of the room.

“I don’t think this is a very good topic of conversation for a party,” Dolley interrupted. “Now, Mr. Clay, why don’t you come with me. I’ve a few people I’d like to introduce you to. Oh, do come by for tea tomorrow, Mrs. Hamilton?”

Eliza nodded. “I will, Mrs. Madison, thank you.”

Dolley winked at her before she deftly took Clay’s arm and began to steer him away.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, General,” Clay said, glancing back over his shoulder with a wide grin. “We’ll continue our conversation soon, I’m sure.”

“You know this isn’t right, Jemmy.”

“The Baltimore incident was inexcusable, I agree,” Madison said softly.

“This whole war is inexcusable.”

“Britain left us no choice,” Madison argued.

“Your War Hawks left you no choice,” Alexander shot back, nodding in the direction Clay had disappeared.

“The war is already declared. If you came to Washington merely to argue against the fighting of it, I’m afraid you’ll find little success.”

“I came to serve my country, as I always will if I can be of service. It doesn’t mean I have to agree with you.”

Madison nodded. “We’ll meet and discuss everything fully in the next few days. For now, do try to enjoy the party. Mrs. Hamilton, lovely to see you.”

When Madison had turned away, Eliza heard Alexander say softly, “Betsey?”

“Yes, my love?”

“Can you take me outside? I need some air.”

“Of course, honey.”

 She steered him through the crowd back towards the entrance, pausing only when she’d found unoccupied corner of the garden outside.

“Well, that was rousing,” she teased.

“I’m too old for this.”

“You didn’t sound it in there.”

“Betsey,” he sighed, his eyes bright as he looked up at her. “How am I supposed to fight this war again? Clay has no idea of the hardships, the sacrifices. These Freshman Congressmen, these War Hawks, they’re children. They don’t understand. It took seven years to drive the British away last time. Seven years. I don’t even believe in the cause this time around.”

“They were testing us. You said so yourself.”

 “They were treating us the same as they treat every second-class nation. And that’s what we are, in their eyes. It’s an issue that calls for diplomacy. Not war.”

“We could always go home.” A flutter of hope rushed through her, even though she knew his answer.

“No.” He pressed the heel of his hands to his eyes. “I’m just…exhausted. And I’ve barely even begun. I don’t even know what is going to be asked of me.”

“You won’t need to ride out with the army, right?” she pressed. “Surely Madison won’t ask that of you, at least.”

“I don’t know. I’m in as much condition to ride out as most of the other Generals. Did you see Dearborn in there? I’d very much doubt that he can even mount a horse. Those of us with enough experience to lead are too old, too crippled with rheumatism, gout, whatever else, too fat--”

“Well, you’re not fat,” she teased. “And the gout hasn’t gotten you too badly.”

“I wouldn’t know,” he said, tapping his knees.

“I trust you,” she said, settling herself onto his lap and pressing her lips to his. “Far more than any one in that room. Far more than anyone in this country. No matter how old you think you are.”

His expression softened as he gazed at her.

He turned his head to look around their surroundings, examining the flowering plants that surrounded them. “This is a nice garden,” he remarked. “I might not mind sitting out here of an evening. What do you think?”

“Don’t even tease about that, Alexander,” she scolded.

He raised his brow, smirked, then stole another kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always loved that Mrs. Madison's Wednesday night drawing room parties were called "squeezes" because so many people of both parties packed into the White House. The story about Federalists, including "Light Horse" Harry Lee, being attacked and beaten due to a critical editorial is true, sadly, and something I think Hamilton would have been horrified by. And getting to introduce Ham and Henry Clay was actually pretty fun - that would have been a firey encounter for sure! 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me!! Hope you enjoyed!!


	15. Hamilton, August 1812

**August 1812**

“A third of our army,” Hamilton mumbled. His palms covered his eyes and his fingers clenched and unclenched in his hair as he tried to comprehend the news William Eustis had just delivered.

“Yes,” Eustis repeated.

“A third of our army. Hull surrendered a third of our army.”

“No matter how many times you repeat it, it will still be true, General Hamilton,” Madison said, tone far too even for the disaster befalling them. “What do you recommend we do to save the situation?”

“What do I recommend?” Hamilton echoed, a harsh, strained laugh struggling out of his throat. “We’ve lost a third of our army! Hull is being marched through the streets of Canada by the British!”

“Yes,” Madison agreed.

“Our other forces are ready to march, Mr. President,” Eustis said. “Van Rensselaer is ready to head the forces in New York, and Dearborn has ridden out to take command of the army to the East. We can still mount a multi-pronged attack.”

Hamilton finally removed his head from his hands to glare at Eustis. “You want to just barrel forward with the original plan, as if nothing has happened?”

“Why not?”

“We just lost a third of our army!” His voice raised in pitch now, enunciating each syllable as if the men before him were having trouble comprehending the enormity of the situation. “Due to the cowardice and mismanagement wrought by a commander of your choosing!”

“General Hull was a highly respected—”

“General Hull’s unparalleled act of cowardice makes General Lee’s actions at Monmouth look like heroism!”

Indeed, at least Washington had mitigated the worst of the consequences of Lee’s cowardice by placing Lafayette in charge. No one had been there to check Hull or remove him from command. Instead, out of fear of the Native fighters allied with the British, Hull had given up his whole force. Not since Arnold had their nation seen such treachery; that it stemmed from cowardice made it somehow worse, to his mind.  

“Hamilton,” Madison cautioned.

“And this on the heels of Fort Mackinac. How do you think people will react when it gets out that your War Department decided to send the news of our declaration of war to our garrison via regular post!”

Eustis’ spine straightened at the attack. That he wasn’t bowing his head in shame made Hamilton judge him all the more harshly. Had someone in his own department ever made such a bone headed decision on his watch, he’d have had the man drawn and quartered before resigning himself in humiliation for ever entrusting duties to such an evident imbecile.

He continued before Eustis could utter a word in his own defense. “The people are going to turn on this war in an instant, and for very good reason. Then you can watch support for your Hawks in Congress shrivel up into nothing. No American wants to march off to a war to be surrendered to the enemy without so much as a shot fired.”

“Threats get us nowhere, General,” Eustis spit.

“I’m not threatening. I’m stating facts. I saw the appetite for war dry up under President Adams. Don’t for a moment think the same won’t happen for your conflict. We won the first war against the British through sheer, stubborn determination. What’s to inspire young men to march through the snow with bloody feet this time, hm? Mr. Clay’s pride?”

“What do you suggest we do, General Hamilton?” Madison repeated, the same maddening calm lacing his tone.

“We need to revisit our plans. And most immediately, we need to revisit the men you’ve placed in charge of this fiasco.”

Eustis sniffed. “General Van Rensselaer is your brother-in-law, is he not? What objection could you have to him?”

Stephen’s selection as head of the Army of the Center had been for reasons very similar to Hamilton’s placement in a position of high command. Jemmy, concerned about a challenge from Stephen for Governor of New York unseating a Democratic Republican more to his taste, had tapped him instead for military service. A fine political tactic, perhaps, but given Stephen’s utter lack of military experience, a potentially disastrous military one.

“Nepotism has no place in a crisis. And make no mistake, Gentlemen, we are in the middle of a rather spectacular crisis.”

“If not Van Rensselaer, who exactly did you have in mind?” Madison pressed.

Hamilton sighed. “You’re not going to like it.”

 **

“What did you do?” Eliza’s cheeks were flushed as she pushed through the door to his office, not having bothered to knock.

“You look lovely, darling,” he said, pushing back slightly from his desk and painting his most charming smile on his lips. “Were you lunching with Mrs. Madison?”

The flare to her nostrils had already answered the question for him. Mrs. Madison must have told her the news.

She repeated herself, voice deadly quiet, “What did you do?”

“How do you know it was me?”

“I know Madison didn’t suggest him.”

He smiled. His brilliant, darling wife. “That’s fair enough.”

“Burr! Again! Will we never be finished with that man?”

“It’s not as if you’ll have to entertain him, sweetheart. Once he’s given his orders, he’ll be headed back to New York, and you need not have anything to do with him at all.”

“And to replace Stephen, Alexander. How could you?”

“He has no military experience, Betsey. After Hull’s incompetence, we need someone we can depend on heading our army. I doubt I could convince Madison to replace Dearborn, given his close association with Jefferson, but Stephen’s appointment was solely based on politics. Keeping him in a high enough position keeps him away from the Governor’s race, whether he’s in full command or not. Better still if it’s known I was the one who recommended he be removed.”

“You really trust Burr more than your own brother-in-law?”  

“In charge of an army? I do.”

“Am I the only one who remembers that he shot you?”

Hamilton laid hands on the wheels of his chair, gritting his teeth lightly. “I remember just fine.”

“Alexander,” she pressed, plaintive.

“Not only does Burr have far more command experience, he’s fought in Canada previously. He knows the terrain, the pitfalls, the circumstances to avoid. I can’t think of anyone better to put in charge of that leg of our army.”

“You,” she suggested. Her lips pouted out temptingly and her head cocked slightly to the side.

He grinned as he rolled closer to her. “Careful. Too much praise will go to my head.”

“I don’t like it,” she insisted, but the set of her shoulders told him the fight was draining out of her.

“I know, my love. I promise, you won’t need to spend too much time with him.”

“Too much?”

He hummed.

“That sounds like dissembling to me.”

“No social occasions with just the three of us?” he offered.

“And you’ll tell Stephen about the demotion personally?”

“Deal.” 

She sighed and reached out to shake his hand. “Deal.”

He drew her hand to him and held it to his lips. A stack of paperwork sat on his desk, nearly screaming for attention. Requests for rations, uniforms, marching orders, all needing to be reviewed, signed, and sent out immediately. He craned his head back to look at it, even as the scent of Eliza’s rosewater soap tickled his nose invitingly.

Well, the war was an unmitigated disaster anyway. What was another hour?

“Do you have somewhere to be in the next hour, Betsey?”

“I have to dress for dinner with some of Congressmen’s wives in a little while, but I have some time.” Her smile turned a little coy. “Why?”

His brow rose in invitation as he pulled her down towards him.

“Naughty boy,” she whispered in his ear as she pressed a kiss to his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The War of 1812 got off to a pretty poor start from the American perspective, and I imagine Hamilton being pretty ticked off at the incompetence of the early war. Especially considering I doubt he would have been thrilled at the prospect of war in the first place. Despite his close relationship with Stephen Van Rensselaer, I can't imagine him abiding command going to someone with no command experience. Burr, on the other hand, may actually had made some sense (now that he's not hiding in exile in Europe, of course :D)


	16. Burr, October 1812

**October 1812**

Burr was re-reading the latest letter from Theo when he heard the screaming. Startled, he pushed away from his desk, whipping aside the tent flap to emerge into a stampede of panicked men. Burr could smell gunpowder, the tell-tale gray clouds of battle gathering over the Queenston Heights; of more concern, the eerie call of Native war-whoops were audible underneath all the shouting. Seizing a passing sergeant by the shoulder, Burr demanded, “What it is going on?”

“I don’t know, sir,” the sergeant pleaded.  

“Why are you running, then?”

“I don’t know, sir,” the sergeant repeated as he squirmed away from Burr’s grasp to keep running with the rest of the men.

“Damn it,” Burr muttered, fighting the current of men to push towards the launch point of the attack.

They’d been winning not ten minutes earlier.

What on earth could have happened?

Hamilton had groused at their first meeting in Washington, “Everything about this damn war feels a day late and penny short. I can’t seem to pull ahead of the incompetence I inherited.”

“And you’d like to put me in charge of it?”

“I never claimed I was doing you a kindness,” Hamilton had retorted, his trademark wry smile playing at the corners of his lips.

“How long are you going to keep punishing me?”

“As long as I see fit.” The smile had turned to a toothy grin as Hamilton waved him towards the chair.

 Burr had rolled his eyes at the smug tone even as he’d taken the offered seat. “You know, I ought to spend more time in your company. Remembering how frustrating you are is the best antidote to any of my lingering guilt.”

Hamilton had laughed, a distinct twinkle in his eyes. “You’re welcome.”  

Burr had snorted in response.

After spending the past years working to rebuild his law practice while staying as far out of the public eye as possible, he’d had little interest in resuming his military career. Though, he’d had to admit, catching up to Hamilton in rank was rather an enticement. And his dear little Gampillo had been duly impressed when Burr had emerged resplendent in a new General’s uniform for the first time.

Still, he’d worked hard to try to reestablish a sense of normality. Enough money to support himself and a house with enough rooms to have Theo and Gampy for the summers was all he desired now. Wading into the thick of a losing war wasn’t going to do his reputation any favors. His practice wouldn't survive another reputational hit. 

“War is the business of the young. Leave it to them,” he’d tried to argue to Hamilton, one of his old headaches pounding between his temples at the daunting task before them.

“None of the men in charge at the moment are what I’d call young.”

“All the more reason to leave me out of it,” Burr said.

“Theo’s in New York with you for the summer, isn’t she? With little Aaron?”

“She is.” Hamilton damn well knew that.

“If we leave Van Rensselaer in charge of our forces, how safe do you think they’d be? Brock’s cunning and smart. What’s to stop him marching on New York?”

“She could always travel back to South Carolina.” But that wasn’t really an option, he considered, even as he’d said it. The malarial outbreaks were worse than ever this year. The thought of sending Theo and Gampillo back into the heart of the outbreak made his blood run cold.

“Look, it’s not like I’m excited to be back in uniform either. But without significant turnaround, I expect we’ll be a British colony again by New Years’.”

“You’re exaggerating,” Burr charged.

“I wish I were.”

“The _U.S.S. Constitution_ has won a victory for us. It’s not all doom and gloom.”

“Britain has the greatest navy the world has ever seen. If the only place we can win a battle is at sea, I shudder for our chances.”

Burr had massaged his temples even as he sighed in surrender. “What do you need me to do?”

His appointed task had been easier said than done: take command of the army of the center and successfully penetrate Upper Canada. The problem was, whatever Van Rensselaer might have said to Hamilton, he’d had no interest in giving up command of his militia forces to Burr. And Burr had the distinct impression that no small amount of skepticism still ran through the minds of the men. Letting him return to his legal business in New York might have been acceptable, but to place a man once accused of treason in command of an army?

And so, on the eve of battle, with his regular forces dwarfed by Van Rensselaer’s New York militia, he’d found himself relegated to his command tent, little more than a useless figurehead.

Still, Van Rensselaer hadn’t been doing anything too inexcusably stupid to Burr’s eyes. They’d been undersupplied at first, but a brief armistice had given them a chance to stock up and remedied most of their wants. And while foul weather had scuttled their first planned attack on Queenston, things seemed to be going admirably well today. In fact, field command had just sent back a request for entrenchment tools.

What could have gone so wrong?

Burr hasted towards the riverbank as he spotted Van Rensselaer’s boat coming back, nearly swamped by men. They started leaping over the sides and swimming for the bank as Burr watched, horrified. From across the water, he heard men screaming, “Help! Help us! Send the boats!”

“They’re running scared,” Van Rensselaer reported as he swung his feet over the side of the boat. “I was just coming back for equipment, and they started swarming. I don’t… I don’t know what to do.”

“Stop running, you dogs!” Burr shouted to the men scrambling away.

“The men can’t retreat into the water. They’re trapped,” Van Rensselaer said.

“They shouldn’t be retreating at all!”

“When the Indians arrived—”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Burr huffed, turning sharply to follow the panicking men.

A group of older regulars were standing nearby, watching the ensuing panic with evident confusion. Burr hastily arranged them into formation and ordered they raise their arms.

“Sir?” a corporal queried.

“Raise your rifle, corporal,” he ordered again.

They all obeyed.

The sea of men stilled.

Burr mounted an overturned box and pitched up his voice. “The next man who I see running from this battle will be shot for desertion.”

More men stopped, turning slowly.

“But sir, the Indians,” one of the men called.

“General Hull surrendered his entire force out of fear of the Indians. You heard the way your countrymen talked about him? Would you leave your wives and daughters to blush for your cowardice, too?”

Anger flitted over the faces in the crowd. A breathless anticipation rippled in the air.

“We fought the British once before for our freedom,” Burr continued. “We stood strong no matter how hard or hopeless our chances. We didn’t run scared at Valley Forge. We didn’t run scared at Yorktown. And we won’t run now. If we die, we die on our feet, facing the enemy down. Who’s with me?”

A whoop to rival the noise from the opposite bank rose from the men assembled before him.

“To the boats, lads!”

The current began to flow the opposite direction, men scrambling to regain the ground they’d lost to return to the boats to carry them across the river.

Van Rensselaer stood gaping some paces away.

“Confidence from a commander goes a long way, General,” Burr instructed as he passed.

It was a lesson he’d seen in action at Monmouth, when Washington had turned the panicky forces fleeing under Lees command back around. Even he’d been moved by the stern, cool gaze ordering them onwards despite the heat, the screams, the horror that lay ahead. At least, he had been until he’d passed out from the heat exhaustion.

He piled into one of the boats himself and continued to encourage the war cries from the small fleet now rushing across the Niagara as fast as the oarsmen could carry them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Battle of Queenston in Ontario was another loss for the Americans historically, but the victory came at a high price for the British, who lost enthusiastic and talented General Isaac Brock. 
> 
> Also, historically, Burr's grandson, Aaron Burr Alston, had died of Malaria in June 1812. When Theo had first married Joseph Alston, the plan had been that should would summer in New York with her father (much like Eliza Hamilton did with her children when Hamilton was working in Philadelphia). Because Burr had to flee the country after his treason trial, and returned to America hardly able to support himself, however, Theo ended up spending her summers in South Carolina with her husband. After her son contracted malaria and died, she boarded a ship for New York as soon as she was able, and disappeared in what is today believed to have been a ship wreck. 
> 
> However, because in this timeline Burr was able to work at reestablishing his practice, and Theo and Aaron Burr Alston were able to summer with him as planned, and I can only imagine that those tragedies would have been avoided. And I also imagine Burr, desperate to maintain his practice, would have thrown himself into fighting as hard as possible to avoid becoming another Hull.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you stay tuned for more! As always, feedback is greatly appreciated!!


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